


The Shadows of Night

by Rhysand_vs_Fenrys



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 49,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhysand_vs_Fenrys/pseuds/Rhysand_vs_Fenrys
Summary: A mysterious army appears in the mountains of Night and soon declares war against the High Lords. The conflict will shed light on Night's darkest secrets and reveal the horrible truth behind every Daemati and Shadowsinger in Prythian.





	1. Chapter 1

##  **Chapter 1**

 

The entire world was… damp.

Nesta’s breath came in bursts of steam as she panted. Her furs were almost unbearably heavy with water from endless days in the mists that hugged the mountaintops. Even protected as she was by the dense oaks, rain still drip-drip-dripped over everything. Not enough to be wet pre se but… damp.

It didn’t matter though. Nothing mattered except putting one foot in front of the other and pressing on through the forests. Every step could be the difference between escape and capture. Especially now.

Eleven days ago, Cassian left for Velaris. He’d never been gone longer than a single evening, certainly not long enough for Nesta to mount any serious attempt at fleeing that Illyrian camp her damned sister banished her to. Four months-  _four months_ \- of playing the good little girl and training under Cassian’s hawkish gaze. Four months of patience with only her wrath to warm her heart.

Then her half-breed brother-in-law called a summit of High Lords- five days of discussion and meetings- meaning he needed Cassian there to help Azriel keep everyone in line. The summit was a way to improve inter-Court relations and cooperation, so it would be held in the newly renovated House of Wind where the ponce could show off his precious Velaris.

Nesta, well behaved as she was, could surely be left under the supervision of Lord Devlon during Cassian’s absence… except all it took to convince him to leave her alone for eleven days were two simple words: “Lady troubles”.

Nesta packed up and walked out of camp in broad daylight mere hours after Cassian’s departure. Every step since then had been to obscure her path and put as much distance as she could between herself and that wretched cabin she’d been forced to share with the Illyrian.

Her goal was the eastern coast of Night, but she took a decidedly  _western_  path through the foothills to help throw off the trail. Everyone would expect her to go west to the coast, then travel south to the border of Day- which Azriel would undoubtedly put eyes on.

Instead, Nesta hooked around a mountain, climbing higher and higher until she deemed it safe to turn eastward. She intended to cross the continent, reach the coast, find a port, and sail not to Day but to Spring. Nesta had no money, but she’d been screwing Illyrians for alcohol behind Cassian’s back, and passage out of Night was a much more worthy use of the body she’d never claim as her own.

All the planning in the world would be for nothing though if Cassian caught her. It was hours since Nesta last saw sky through the trees, but she estimated it was early afternoon. Either he’d gotten in first thing in the morning and was already on the hunt, or he would arrive at sunset and this was her last day of travel unpursued.

‘ _I’ll get as close to Tamlin as possible, but not close enough to risk him seeing me_ ,’ Nesta couldn’t be sure the High Lord wouldn’t turn her over to Feyre as a gesture of some sort. Her sister hated Tamlin- or had the last time Nesta bothered listening to her. No one would be running to Spring to look for her, and Beron was so tedious in the High Lord’s meeting two years before that she refused to even consider Autumn.

No, Spring was the safest option, at least until she could pay or fuck her way off Prythian.

The thrill of the escape, the thought of being away from the Court and the entire damned continent was the first thing in memory that made Nesta feel something akin to  _alive_. Sex didn’t shame or please her and alcohol only made time pass faster, but the thought of her family’s outrage as they tried- and failed- to find her year after year fed a vicious, cruel piece of her soul and brought a smile to her lips.

The monsters of the forest paid no mind to her as she made her escape, but Nesta still wouldn’t risk a fire that night. They feared the female who reeked of the Cauldron, but there was no need to make the beasts question that fear by letting her guard down. Monsters aside- Cassian’s hunt had either already begun or would commence at sunset. If she lit a fire she might as well stand in the middle of an open field screaming ‘I’M RIGHT HERE!’

Eleven days in the forest with no fire, wearing wet furs, and eating strips of salted meat were taking a toll. Nesta’s pace was dangerously slow considering her pursuers. She tripped over nothing at all, and beneath her leather pants her legs were bruised and bloody thanks to her own cold-numb feet.

She was weak, exhausted, and severely trying the patience of even fae survival abilities. Time and again Nesta would pull herself back up onto her feet and press on- but as the hours crawled by she questioned what the bigger risk might be: an evening fire to warm her body and steady her hands, or bloody legs that beckoned to every forest beast?

Nesta felt a frigid breeze kiss her cheek and a splash of light flickered through the branches. She hesitated- ahead, behind, and to her left the trees were dense as ever, but on her right they’d thinned abruptly.

An outcropping.

It didn’t matter to her what the view might be- why should it? She knew she was high up in the mountains, so long as she didn’t go higher or lower she would keep the path. As much fog and mist as there was in the mountains, Nesta wouldn’t be able to see far, but what if Cassian were following her? What if he’d guessed her path and was already circling overhead, looking for her?

The aching darkness she’d stolen from the Cauldron roiled in her veins. A shiver wracked her body at the sensation- it was the first time she’d felt that power since the final battle with Hybern. Nesta stomped down on it and tried to continue on her path- but the magic shifted again. It pulled her towards that light.

 _See see see see see see see see_ … The Cauldron’s voice chanted in the back of her mind.

If only to silence it, Nesta finally turned and walked through the trees to a rocky ledge. She crept out of the forest’s protection and squinted, trying to peer through the mountain clouds.

A breath of wind stirred through the valley below, affording only the briefest glimpses of whatever it was the Cauldron wanted her to see.

Five seconds was all Nesta had.

Five seconds was all it took to turn Nesta on her heels and send her racing back into the forest-

-and all the way to Devlon’s Camp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Eleven days to escape Devlon’s camp and everything it represented.

Twenty-four to find her way back.

More than a month after she ran away, a patrolling sentry found Nesta struggling up a steep hill two miles from Devlon’s camp. She was half-starved, sick, frozen to the bone, and had systematically stripped herself of her leathers and pack. Anything that weighed her down was abandoned as she grew weaker and weaker. All that was left was a single pair of leather breeches and a dark brown linen shirt that had once been white.

Whenever her frozen muscles forced her to stop, she built a fire out of wet wood that sent billowing plumes of smoke into the sky. As her food ran out, she hunted openly and made bloody displays of her kills. It was worth risking the attention of any monsters in the woods if it meant Cassian would find her even a minute faster.

As the days crawled by though, Nesta had to accept that he’d moved his search to the southern border already. 

Not even the winged male who spotted her offered any sort of assistance to reach the camp sooner. He flew by only low enough to identify her before angling back into the sky and continuing his patrol. It was almost comical how effortlessly- and quickly- he faded from view. With those wings her trip would have taken  _ hours _ , not weeks.

“Oh, are your lady troubles over? Good for you.” Devlon was waiting at the edge of camp with a smirk. He sat on a boulder with his wings draped behind him to catch the sun and openly mocked Nesta with his pristine leathers and bleach-white shirt.

Fever made her cheeks red as she swayed in her soaked clothes. Nesta felt her temper trying to rise to meet Devlon’s smirk, but she was too tired. All she cared about was getting to Cassian as quickly as possible. 

“I need you to fly me to the border.”

Devlon crossed his arms, “No.”

Nearly a month since she saw the army, and for all Nesta knew it was too late to deliver her warning. She had no patience left for Devlon’s bullshit, “I need to see Cassian. If by some  _ miracle _ this war hasn’t started yet, he’s going to need all the warning he can get. Take me to him.”

“No.”

“ _ Please! _ ”

“Ah, learned some manners in your little sojourn? No  _ Miss _ .” He gave a patronizing half-bow.

The dark power that usually roiled in her veins was silent. In Hybern’s war, she’d misted an entire swath of the battlefield. Now that she just wanted to rip apart one Illyrian it was nowhere to be seen. The laws of fae-kind said that her power should have been growing day after day, but no matter how hard she tried to summon it, it remained sealed behind a wall.

Nesta had no intention of letting Devlon dismiss her, but she couldn’t help but do the math all the same. If she knew the trails to follow, Velaris was at best a month long trek up cliffs and across mountains. Tired, ill, and without any map  _ or _ guide? 

Maybe four months, if she was lucky.

Twenty-four days since Nesta saw that army, she didn’t have another minute to spare, “Cassian will be searching for me at the border. I’ll do  _ whatever _ you want, just get me to him today.”

Whatever he wanted… it was an offer most males took only one way, and even though it made her soul shudder and her skin crawl, she meant it. She would endure Devlon if it meant finding Cassian.

Devlon sized her up, his lip curling into a cruel sneer, “What could I possibly want from you?”

“What do you think?” she snapped.

He had the audacity to laugh, “Word around camp is that your cunt is worth a mug of ale, but nothing more. It’s certainly not worth ferrying you around.”

“I said whatever you want,” Nesta spat, her cheeks hot with shame. “There must be something, or you wouldn’t be here.”

He leaned in close, “I  _ want _ to see your face, you arrogant little whore, when you learn a little secret.”

“That you’re impotent? I guessed as much already.” Maybe it wasn’t the best move- to insult the male whose help she needed- but something in those eyes made her heart race and her stomach churn.

His grin was wide enough that Nesta took a half step back. Suddenly she realized she didn’t want to be there. She wanted to be anywhere else- if only to avoid hearing what he was about to say. The same words that quiet, aching corner of her mind whispered as she shivered through the blackest hours of the night.

“Cassian watched you walk out of camp. No one is looking for you.”

The ground vanished from beneath her feet. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear Devlon over the silence roaring in her own ears. Nesta’s blood froze in her veins and even though she hadn’t stopped to eat in two days, she felt like she was going to throw up.

_ ‘Cassian… isn’t looking for me?’ _

No-  _ no _ . Devlon had to be lying. Elain, Amren, Feyre- they all gave up on her, but Cassian wouldn’t. He couldn’t. No matter what she did or what she said, he would always give her another chance. He would always be there.

Devlon was laughing as she shoved past him and made her way into camp, but couldn’t hear him over the pounding of her blood.

_ “I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you in the next world- the next life. And we will have that time. I promise.”  _ His voice echoed in her ears from that horrible day so, so long ago. The day her soul shattered, when everything went wrong.

He promised. He wouldn’t give up on this life, he-

Bright lights flashed in her vision as she hurried to their cabin, still gasping for air. She didn’t lose her last friend in the world. She wasn’t all alone now. People-  _ Cassian _ \- still cared about her, he had to. He couldn’t give up. He  _ couldn’t _ . 

Yes, she’d fled him and done everything she could to mask her tracks, but he was looking for her. He had to look for her. 

She  _ needed _ him to look for her. To at least  _ try _ to find her. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t abandoned or lost-

Nesta ripped open the door of the cabin, wild-eyed.

Dark.

Cold.

Small as it was, Nesta could see most of the first floor without moving an inch. His boots were gone from their spot by the door, the red blanket  _ always _ thrown over the chair beside the fire was missing, his mug wasn’t on the counter and the bowl of fruit on the table was a mass of black mold and mush. She could feel the void inside the cabin, as if Cassian’s rage still hung thick in the air.

Panting, her voice thin and her head spinning, Nesta turned and finally saw the Illyrians staring at her, wondering why she was back to burden their camp and their lives with her existence.

“I know Azriel has a spy here,” she was breathless, desperate, “tell your master I need him.”

She stepped into the house and slammed the door, then sunk to her knees and wept.

\---

* * *

 

\---

Darkness had fallen outside.

A fire crackled in the hearth.

A spoon was at her lips, forcing hot broth down her throat.

Nesta’s tear-swollen eyes opened slowly. At the sight of the Illyrian kneeling beside her, relief bloomed in her chest-

-until the firelight glittered off of blue siphons, not red.

Azriel’s face was blank as he took another spoonful of broth and fed it to her. She shivered in spite of the cabin’s heat. Her fever was getting worse.

Good. Maybe the fever would carry her away and spare everyone her presence. Maybe Cassian would stand over her grave and remember the promise he’d made and abandoned.

Azriel said nothing until the bowl of broth was empty, then simply, “What?”

“I need to see Cassian.”

“Absolutely not.” Azriel’s tone left no room for compromise.

She’d come all the way back from the mountains to warn  _ Cassian _ , to tell  _ Cassian _ what she saw. Maybe he hated her now too, but if she could warn him then maybe things could be fixed.

“Where is he?”

“That’s his business.”

“Does he know I’m here?”

He raised an eyebrow, “No. No one does. They don’t need the trouble.” His words were even and soft, but crueler than even Azriel should be capable of.

The final piece of her heart crumbled, and Nesta felt fresh, hot tears running down her cheeks. Shame and wrath made her cruel, but she’d finally exhausted her bountiful supply of indignation. She spent two years pushing Cassian away and now that he was gone… she finally realized how much she needed him.

Nesta just wanted it to be over. The pain, the numbing silence, the isolation. She had nothing left in all the world. No family who loved her, no friends, no place to call her own… All she had was the knowledge of what lurked in the mountains.

So she gave that knowledge to Azriel, expecting only for him to take the report to his family and let her fade back into the woods. No running away this time, Nesta was just ready to let go.

But Azriel had other plans. 

Darkness exploded around them in an instant. When it cleared, they were in the throne room of the Hewn City.

Surprise rippled through the assembled crowd at the shadowsinger’s sudden appearance. He waved a hand and a black wall rose, sealing off the front of the room from the rest, where a noble man was debating something trivial with Kier.

“We’ve got a problem,” Azriel left Nesta on the floor and stalked up to Rhys and Feyre on their obsidian thrones.

“Oh?” Rhys raised an eyebrow, but Feyre froze. She was the first to notice Nesta as her eldest sister scrambled to her feet. Her midnight-blue gown was cut in the revealing fashion of the Court of Nightmares and so Nesta could actually see Feyre hold her breath.

“There is an army in the western mountains,” Azriel actually sounded frightened as he added, “they have the Cauldron.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is early to celebrate 8,000 followers on Rhysand-vs-Rowan@Tumblr

**Chapter 3**

Rhys threw up a glamour around himself and Feyre so that Nesta couldn’t see him take her hand. She was trembling- but from what he could only guess. Seeing Nesta again, or the possibility that the Cauldron was in Prythian once more?

Azriel was gone from the throne room for only thirty minutes. Whatever Nesta did to convince him to bring her meant the spymaster saw merit in her words. He wouldn’t bring her to the Hewn City otherwise.

Still, Nesta hardly looked like someone who could be taken at their word. Even if Rhys didn’t know her he would be skeptical. She was barely able to stand, fever burned her cheeks and yet the rest of her was corpse-pale. She’d lost more weight than she could afford, stunk of sweat and earth, and was in stained clothes that looked… damp. She might believe whatever she’d seen was real, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was.

Adding back into the equation her history with alcohol abuse and presumed sobriety since disappearing, it was equally possible that Nesta was hallucinating or misunderstanding whatever it was she might have seen.

But was Rhysand really prepared to risk the safety of Night and Prythian as a whole on this being some misunderstanding?

Hidden by the glamour, he looked to Cassian. He was staring straight ahead, eyes locked and jaw set. No emotion or recognition betrayed him. At his side, Mor had a comforting hand on Cassian’s shoulder and open hostility on her face. If anyone knew what he was feeling, it would be her.

Nesta hadn’t noticed the female on the other side of the throne yet. Elain’s kohl-lined eyes were filled with a deep, aching sadness. She fidgeted in place, sending flickers of light off the crystals in her black gown. Carefully prepared blossoms of nightshade were braided into her long hair, and a petal fell as she looked back at Rhys. The way she held his gaze told him she saw through the glamour as she silently begged him to be kind.

“Azriel, go to Miryam and Drakon. Verify that the Cauldron has been taken. Find out when, how, and by whom. Be quick.” Azriel nodded once and vanished. To Nesta, he simply said, “Show me.”

He felt her icy shields crumble and Rhys entered the inky depths of her mind. He didn’t look further than the image she hauled up, didn’t want to know her feelings or hear her formulate more excuses for her conduct. The mind of Nesta Archeron was a dark, vile place he couldn’t escape fast enough.

Rhys watched through her eyes as she crossed the threshold of trees onto a rocky ledge. He saw the valley below cloaked in mist. A breeze stirred the air, the haze shifted, and the army came into view.

At least three hundred beings stalked through a rough camp. Paths between rising tents formed a precise grid through which males, females, and species of beast he could only guess at roamed. An aura of might hung over the camp, a world of power contained by the unnatural mist that cloaked them.

But where the various paths combined, at the epicenter of the camp- a massive gray cauldron, bubbling and foaming. No part of it resembled the Cauldron Rhys died repairing, but the power whispering from it and the sheer force that struck Nesta until the mist finally hid it from sight- there was no doubt they were cut of the same cloth.

‘ _ Show me where you were, _ ’ Rhys whispered into Nesta’s mind. She showed him the path she’d taken over the mountains, and the distances traveled both there and back again. Eleven days into the mountains and she was exhausted, but still well within her right mind. The illness was likely in her body by then, but it couldn’t have taken hold yet.

Rhys asked directions for Cassian’s sake as much as his own assessment. So his friend wouldn’t have to address Nesta directly to find out where he had to fly. Rhys turned on his throne to face his friend, “West from Devlon’s camp for two hours, then southeast for three. Circle the third peak from the left and turn twenty degrees. Do not engage them under any circumstances.”

Nesta turned quickly, as though she might say something, but Cassian was already gone. Only Mor’s hate-filled eyes met hers. She was the one who listened to his angry ranting without comment, and she was the one who knew better than any in the Inner Circle how deeply Nesta’s betrayal had wounded him. From the beginning Mor knew Nesta would break his heart, but Cassian couldn’t resist sticking his hand into the flame anyways.

“You will stay in the Hewn Palace while we figure out if what you saw was even real,” Feyre said. “We’ll give you food, clothing, and a place to sleep, but you are not our guest. You cannot leave your suite or send for anyone. Visitors may seek you out if they care to see you, but that is all.” 

To spare Cassian, Feyre would not let her sister draw him in again. Any notes she slipped out into the hallway would go straight into a fireplace, and Nesta couldn’t climb the thousands of stairs necessary to reach the Palace of Nightmares on top of the mountain.

Rhys tightened his grip on Feyre’s hand. Through the bond he could feel her rage and grief. There was more she wanted to say- tried to say- but Rhys stole away her voice before she could cross that line. Feyre shot him a wrathful glare, but he knew if those words left her lips she would regret them forever.

For his mate’s own sake, he betrayed her trust and love.

‘ _ I no longer recognize you as family. Any future claims of kinship will be considered fraud and slander. You will be compensated for your warning as any stranger would be. On pain of banishment from Night itself, never show yourself here again. _ ’

As a youngling, Rhys read a poem that said anger was just love disappointed. Nesta had given Feyre a lifetime’s worth of disappointment to fuel her wrath.

His mate could hate him for silencing her, but Rhys wasn’t about to let her hate herself for cutting away her own blood. Besides- there was a void in Nesta’s eyes he’d seen in Feyre when she was at her worst. Elain saw it before anyone else, and he wasn’t entirely sure Nesta could survive the blow of estrangement in her condition.

Rhys nodded to Nuala and Cerridwen, waiting in the shadows. The led Nesta from the room and only when they were gone did he release Feyre’s tongue.

“How  _ dare _ you,” she spat. “Find somewhere else to sleep tonight,” she got up and stormed out of the room with Elain hot on her heels.

Rhys slumped in his throne and made no move to speak or strike down the black wall that kept Kier and his loathsome ilk at bay.

Mor came to pat his shoulder on her own way out. She would spend the night waiting for Cassian’s report and standing by to offer her friendship now that his nightmare was back. If he needed to talk, she would be there. If he needed to play cards and drink until he blacked out- well, she would be there for that too. Cassian did as much for her after Kier mutilated her.

“Another point to Hurricane Nesta,” Rhys muttered to himself. “And another loss for everyone else.”

\---

* * *

 

\---

Nesta was led to a wing of the Hewn Palace, not the residence atop the city. That was for honored guests, not strangers.

She knew Rhys did something to seal Feyre’s lips. She also knew what he probably prevented her from saying.

The chambers were sparsely decorated, but nice all the same. A bathing room with a fine marble tub and privy, a bedroom with a wardrobe of basic gray clothes, and an impersonal selection of Court histories on a squat bookcase. Nothing more or less than one might expect in a modest inn.

Nesta told herself she didn’t care, but something was broken inside her. It shattered when Devlon told her Cassian watched her walk out of camp and she realized he’d  _ never _ been looking for her. No matter how many people she alienated, no matter how many walls she put up, the only constant was Cassian.

_ Was _ Cassian.

For the first time in over a month Nesta drew a bath and scrubbed herself clean, but she couldn’t appreciate the water’s warmth or the perfume of soaps. All she could do was look back on her time in the camp and everything she’d done to push Cassian away.

How she broke his relentless need to  _ save _ her… without even realizing how desperately she needed to know he was still trying.

When did it begin? When did she turn family and friends into strangers?

‘ _ They were never my friends though,’ _ she thought. ‘ _ I never let them come close. Not even Amren.’ _

Once upon a time Feyre brought Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian to meet her- to perhaps save the entire continent from war and how did Nesta greet her?

‘ _ Not in my house, _ ’ she’d declared. 

_ My _ house. As if she did anything to earn the wealth Tamlin showered on them. As if she were the one who sacrificed everything and walked off to her doom not once, but twice as a mortal while her sisters stood and watched.

And as they ate, she attacked Feyre for being unable to eat mortal food. The sister who once chewed strips of bark because there wasn’t enough to go around.

Nesta looked back with a sober mind for the first time in  _ years _ and weighed her sins against every slight her youngest sister committed. Nesta told herself time and again those insults were earned but-

For keeping the Archerons alive, clothed, and fed, she’d only made Feyre’s life harder.

For showing disapproval at what even Nesta knew was a disastrous and abusive relationship with Thomas Mandray, she called her sister a slut in front of their father.

For surviving the worst of Prythian and returning changed, Nesta offered open hostility to both her sister and Feyre’s saviors.

For giving herself to Tamlin that everyone else might escape Hybern- and for returning from his viper pit of a Court with information to save Prythian- Nesta offered only open hostility.

And for every attempt Feyre made to rescue her from her isolation- every offer of a job within the Court, invitations for trips or meals, and any attempt she made to break through- Nesta spat in her face

When Feyre invited her to Solstice- both a holiday and birthday- Nesta demanded payment. That was her greatest shame- and one she could never forgive herself for.

No, Nesta realized at long last. Feyre wasn’t right to send her to the Illyrian Steppes to try and find her peace. She should have given up and cut out the rot in her life much sooner. She should have thrown Nesta to the wild and wolves while they lived in that cabin.

As broken as Nesta was, Feyre had been too. How did she find the strength to keep walking with a sister-sized noose around her throat?

Nesta emptied and refilled the tub over and over again as she bathed, but she couldn’t warm herself. Maybe it was the fever, the hunger, or exhaustion, but she felt something in the heart of her darkness that grew just a bit clearer as she counted her sins. She couldn’t make herself stop- not until it was exposed.

“Are you ever coming out, or are you trying to see if you can soak off boot-rot?” A female voice called from the sitting room. It was old and sharp- not Feyre, Elain, or Amren, but familiar still.

“Coming,” Nesta answered reluctantly. She didn’t want to speak to anyone. She wanted to be miserable and alone, it was what she deserved.

“Put on the clothes outside the door,” the woman instructed.

With a sigh, Nesta pulled the drain plug and climbed out of the tub. She toweled dry before squatting by the door and cracking it just enough to retrieve a thin robe and knee length shift.

“Do you consent to a full exam?” the woman asked.

Nesta’s breath caught. She felt bad enough, did she need to add humiliation?

“Do what you want,” she left the door cracked as she pulled on the clothes and picked at the tangled mess of her hair.

Three glass cups were placed on the floor just inside the door, “Urine, spit, and shit.”

“I’m only filling two of those,” Nesta growled in response.

“Whatever you can give me.”

Madja didn’t look at the female when she finally emerged. Just as well- Nesta couldn’t look at her either as she handed over two of the requested samples.

“Is this how guests are usually treated? Does everyone get a private physician?” Who broke Feyre’s decree? Elain? Cassian? Feyre herself?

“I was asked to look over an ill female in an Illyrian Camp,” Madja said as she portioned the samples of spit and urine into smaller containers on the coffee table. From a black bag the crone fished out various chemicals and began to add small drops of them to the fluids.

Azriel had summoned her then, and probably stopped to winnow her into the Court of Nightmares before heading to Cretea. The hope that had blossomed in Nesta’s chest faded away.

“I will be honest- I’ve heard a few things about you,” Madja stirred the mixes with over a dozen glass pipettes, then studied the ones that changed color. She nodded to herself, “Better than I was expecting.”

“What? What does that mean?” Nesta pointed to a vivid blue sample.

Madja answered even as she produced a notebook and wrote down her findings, “Liver condition is bad, but not beyond help. Your kidneys are fine, but you are dehydrated and in sore need of iron. You have three intimacy-related illnesses, but nothing I can’t fix. There’s been a bit of an outbreak in the Velaris slums, so I still have some extra herbs laying about. Judging by  _ that _ ,” she pointed to a now-red sample of urine, “you have worms.”

“Why did you say you’ve heard about me?” Nesta wrapped her arms around her too-thin frame, feeling naked.

Madja smiled kindly, “When males enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, their manhood is confirmed. Females are shamed for it. When someone is found to have intimacy-related illnesses, I ask for a history of partners. Your name has come up a few times. There is nothing to be ashamed of in an anonymous fling, so long as you take care of yourself and participate for the right reasons. You, Nesta Archeron, do  _ not _ take care of yourself and have all the  _ wrong _ reasons.”

“I don’t-”

“Suicide by neglect,” Madja pointed to the couch. After a moment’s hesitation, Nesta sat, “I’ve been trying to see you for more than a year, but every time your sisters tried to make appointments, you didn’t come.”

Missed visits to Elain and Feyre, even Amren. Nesta thought they were trying to force her into something- was it a meeting with Madja?

“Tell me how it began,” Madja ordered as she grabbed a comb, gloves, and a bottle of something green. She moved behind Nesta and the girl braced for hands on her still-tangled hair.

Sick, hungry, exhausted- Nesta’s heart couldn’t muster the energy to turn back into stone. If it wanted to bleed, she’d cut it wide open.

She told Madja everything. The sins she’d counted, how the silence devoured her after she took Hybern’s head, how she drank to escape and embrace the cold in turn, and how even sex couldn’t jarr her from her prison. It was just more… nothing. She told the wizened old woman how much she hated her father, Feyre, and everyone who’d decided she was Cassian’s before  _ she _ even had a chance to figure it out… and how much she needed him to forgive her now.

As Nesta spoke, cried, and ranted, the thing at the center of her tempest made itself known: What she hated more than anything else in creation was  _ herself _ .

She was never the lady her mother worked so hard to sculpt, she wasn’t the heroine from one of her storybooks, she wasn’t even a passable sister anymore. Everything Nesta had ever tried to become, and everything she thought she should be, she simply wasn’t.

A failure. From the soul out.

Madja picked through her scalp in silence, untangling hair and removing lice as she went. She let Nesta talk, come to her own realizations, and at long last fall silent.

“You know about the mirror Ouroborous?” Madja asked after a few minutes.

“Yes.” The thing that drove fae insane. It showed the essence of a person, the truth of who and what they were.

If Nesta looked into the mirror, she knew what she would see. Something small and repulsive, a parasite that fed to the detriment of the host. Leech, tapeworm, tick- maybe she would even be revealed as one of the lice Madja was working to remove.

“Some people are cursed to know the world as Ouroborous sees it. Everything lays bare, free of embellishment or glamour, but they still try to understand from the eyes of someone unburdened by that clarity. A fairy tale tells you about charming heroes and worthy heroines, but you will never find such simplicity in the real world.”

Madja sighed as she finished her work, “Nesta Archeron, you are more than what those young eyes can see right now. No one will ever be perfect, and you only hurt yourself trying to be. You’re a good person at your core.”

“No I’m not.”

“Not in those dark days, and not when you walked out of that camp, but our lives as Fae are long. It’s never too late to change your legacy.”

“I’ve spent my entire life hurting anyone who tried to care about me.”

“And today you came back to save them.” Madja removed her gloves and patted Nesta’s cheek, “It sounds to me like today you did something to show you still care about them, and every day you were cold and exhausted in those woods for their sake, you continued to do better than the day you left.”

“They won’t see it that way.”

“They will once the sting fades, don’t give up.” She released Nesta and went back to sorting through her supplies for the next part of the examination, “Give yourself some credit Nesta. You’ve never been crueler to anyone than you are to yourself.”

“I can’t change anything, it’s too late,” she murmured.

“Are you here?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to climb mountains and brave monsters to protect them?” Nesta thought for a long time before nodding. “Then it’s not too late at all.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Poison burned through Cassian’s veins, put there by none other than Nesta Archeron.

He’d finally stopped seeing it over and over again- the moment when she dashed into the woods while he watched from his bedroom window. She wasn’t subtle about leaving, he wasn’t subtle about watching her leave. 

At the time he felt perfectly fine- maybe even better than he had since he met the demon. But as he calmly gathered his possessions a whisper of smug satisfaction bloomed in his chest. Nesta would push herself to the point of breaking to get away from him. She would no doubt throw herself through ravines and marshes, exhaust herself beyond all sanity, and most of all- she would do it sober.

In a way he won… but in every way that mattered, he lost.

Cassian wanted her to suffer in her escape. He wanted her to struggle against a foe that didn’t exist. Let her be cold, hungry, even frightened. Let her feel a  _ fraction _ of what he’d felt those endless months he worked to save her from herself.

If possible, he also wanted Nesta to one day know her suffering was in vain. No one was trying to find her. Not again. Cassian wanted her to feel as stupid and foolish as he felt every single time she called him a bastard, a son-of-a-whore, or a mongrel. Every one of her insults was a knife to the heart that he’d born willingly in his blind struggle to reach her. 

Let her waste days or even weeks in pain and agony only to find out it was all pointless.

‘ _ I don’t care that you’re leaving! _ ’ he wanted to shout after her. He wanted to scream and rant and list every last sin she’d committed against him and then leave  _ her _ . 

And yet… he already felt guilty about failing Feyre. He didn’t need to hear his own words echo in his ears and spend sleepless nights cursing himself for not staying silent.

Unspoken words left a bitter, icy knot in his chest that wouldn’t go away. He didn’t say much to Rhys or Feyre when he returned to Velaris that night. He didn’t have to. Before Nesta even knew she was being banished to the Illyrian Steppes, Feyre told Cassian that he should be prepared to run into the same wall everyone else did each time they tried to reach the eldest Archeron.

Cassian simply walked back to his room in the House of Wind, closed the door, and sat in glorious and torturous silence.

Mor was the one who drew him out again. His best friend and rock- the female he loved in that strange, different way. Not romantically of course, Cassian had seen her slipping out of Rita’s with a female in tow too many times to think she had any interest in him. Azriel and Rhysand were his best friends, Feyre like a sister, but Mor- she was closer to him than all the rest. She knew Cassian’s moods and how to coax him from his temper.

Even so, it took her a couple weeks.

The whole time he burned in rage and shame, disgust at Nesta and self-loathing for his own failure. He couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t let him help her- but he was torn between writing it off as her own damn problem and chiding himself for not thinking of some other approach.

Nesta had given up on the entire world, herself included. Cassian swore he wouldn’t give up on her… and then he found out she was trading blow jobs for alcohol. He’d known for weeks before faking his trip to Velaris, he kept  _ trying _ to reach her until-

-until his soul was exhausted, his temper frayed, and he had no choice but to let Nesta go. For his own sake. She was killing herself running from her demons and he was killing himself trying to help her face them. He had to step back before she drowned him too.

Cassian was finally treading water on his own. He was learning to accept that he’d done everything he could and more for Nesta- they all had. Things were starting to settle back into relative peace for the first time in two years.

When Cassian saw Nesta in the throne room, his fragile world shattered again. 

He was ashamed of every insult he’d hurled at her in their imagined arguments. He wanted to fall to his knees, beg her forgiveness, and swear to never give up on her again. Cold dread rolled over him at her silhouette in the corner of his eye. It was all starting again. He would force himself to endure every tantrum, every fight, and a mountain of crushing disappointment. Just like the last time.

He wanted her forgiveness. He never wanted to forgive her. He wanted her by his side. He wanted her gone. He hated her… and he loved her.

‘ _ If you want to create a wind-funnel around the mountain you’ll have to go a bit faster, _ ’ Rhys’ voice murmured in his mind. ‘ _ You’ve been circling for an hour, can I take that to mean you didn’t find any mysterious armies out there? _ ’

Cassian hadn’t even noticed where he was. The flight back was long, he’d made his way by instinct as much as anything. But looking at the palace atop the Court of Nightmares- he didn’t want to land and rest his tired wings. If he landed there, he was suddenly within range of Nesta Archeron. As long as he was in the sky, she couldn't reach him. Couldn’t draw him in for another round of torture and abuse.

_ ‘She’s in a courtier guest suite down in the Hewn Palace and is forbidden from reaching out to anyone. You only have to see or hear from her if you want to. Even Nuala and Cerridwen have been warned against passing notes.’’ _

Cassian considered Rhys’ words, then forced himself to bank right and make for the balcony off the main hall. It was the High Lord’s favorite perch. 

Unfortunately, Nesta wasn’t the biggest of Cassian’s problems, and he knew he didn’t even have the option of heading back to Velaris until she ran off again.

“I’m sorry,” Cassian said as he landed on the cool marble of the palace. A warm breeze pushed back the chill mountain air and sent goosebumps across his arms as he folded his wings.

Rhys was sitting on one of the velvet sofas lining the sides of the hall. He was holding a mug of coffee in hand and conjured a second as his brother approached, “You have nothing to be sorry about. I understand perfectly.”

Cassian took a long drink from the mug Rhys offered him, “You should have Kier activate the Darkbringers, and have Az swing through as many camps as possible on his way back from Cretea. The Illyrians should be ready to mobilize.”

“Tell me what happened,” Rhys sent the command down to Kier but made no move to relay the message to Azriel. He was well out of range.

“The mist was thick, but based on the torchlight glowing through, the camp is easily large enough for three hundred. The scents were contained, but I think I heard some growling down there too, so it’s impossible to judge their numbers. Humanoids and animals, that’s certain.”

“And I just mobilized Kier because-?”

Cassian sunk into a nearby chair while he drained the rest of his mug, “Because an eagle was at my back when I flew away. It stayed almost completely out of sight, but it trailed me the first two hours or so.”

Rhys sighed, “You led it this way?”

The Illyrian shook his head, “I took it south, but it lost interest in me when it saw one of the trade roads. Eagles are neither native to those mountains nor nocturnal, so I’m willing to bet it’s a scout for the army.”

“I take it back- you have a few things to be sorry about,” Rhys grumbled into his cup. He knew Cassian was in a bad place because of Nesta but still- to waste time when an  _ army _ had invaded their land? He would have some very choice words with his best friend- but only after he made things right with his mate. On the eve of possible war, Rhys couldn’t stand two confrontations among their Circle.

“The trade road leads straight here, tell Kier to seal the main entrance and make sure he has eyes in every direction.” Cassian waited a moment, then added, “Any news from Azriel? Do they really have the Cauldron?”

“No, they don’t.  _ A _ Cauldron, but  _ the _ Cauldron is secure. Azriel saw it for himself,” Rhys didn’t sound too optimistic. If anything he sounded defeated already. Whatever this new Cauldron was, between it and the idea of some kind of hybrid cross-species army Rhys could rule out the Mortal Queens as the aggressors. So either it was the sorcerer who held Vassa captive come to attack Prythian or a foe they’d never heard of before.

How many wars could he fight before they broke him? Blind luck blessed them the last time, but they couldn’t be so fortunate again.

“Get some sleep,” Rhys ordered. In spite of the command it was he himself who swung around to lay his legs across the couch, “They probably won’t attack tonight and if they somehow manage to mobilize and attack at dawn, I want you rested, not exhausted.”

“What about you? You could mist a few hundred easy if you’re on full energy. Go to Feyre,” Cassian watched the way Rhys’ face sagged at his words. His lethargy didn’t appear to be entirely related to war-fatigue.

“Stop reading me.”

Cassian sighed and tried to muster up some of his usual bravado, “What’d you do to piss Feyre off? Usually she just calls you a prick and you two are back to normal within the hour. How’d you manage to get yourself banished to the hallway?”

Rhys growled a warning, then sighed, “I muted her. Kept her from disowning Nesta entirely.”

He didn’t know how to respond. On the one hand- he agreed with Feyre wholeheartedly. On the other hand- he knew how much worse Feyre would feel if she’d actually said it. Cassian survived only a couple years worth of abuse from Nesta. Feyre grew up with it, endured it, and  _ still _ put her heart into trying to help her oldest sister. It was Feyre who went to Nesta with job offer after job offer as she sought some way to break through. She was recovering from traumas of her own, and yet she always worked towards aiding her ungrateful sister.

So if Feyre’s love for Nesta was that enduring, how much did she hate her now to actually disown her (or try to at least)?

Cassian read the guilt on Rhys’ face and offered only a simple reply, “It’ll be fine by morning.”

“I crossed a line. Feyre is her own master, it wasn’t my place to decide what she does or doesn’t say.”

“Very true… but I get it. Feyre might nail your balls to the wall and leave you there for a few days, but long term I think she’ll forgive you.”

He stood to head off to his room, but Rhys swung his legs off the couch, “Just a minute- there’s something else we need to talk about.”

“What?”

Rhys hesitated a moment, “Madja was here for Nesta… this will stay between you and me no matter what- I won’t even tell Feyre- but… There were some viruses and growths caused by-”

“We were never intimate in any way,” Cassian snapped.

“She’s going to brew up some tonics for Devlon’s camp that should clear everything up, but if you  _ were _ -”

“I just said we weren’t.”

“ _ If you were _ , the healers here are already mixing up a few extra batches of tonics to treat the conditions. No one would notice if you grabbed a few vials for yourself. Madja says one dose a day for two weeks.”

“It doesn’t matter because  _ we weren’t intimate in any way _ .”

Rhys shrugged and did his best to diffuse Cassian’s wrath, “Alright. I believe you. I’ll never bring it up again.”

“Good,” Cassian turned on his heels and stormed off down the hall, angry once again.

It didn’t help matters when Rhys called softly after him, “For what it’s worth- Madja also said she thinks this time… we might actually get through to Nesta.”

Without breaking stride, Cassian picked up a vase from a nearby table and shattered it against a far wall.

\---

* * *

 

\---

He didn’t sleep the entire night.

Mor was curled up on a chaise in his sitting room, utterly unconscious. He considered waking her so that he could rant and yell and vent that poison in his heart. The whole reason she was in his chambers was in case he needed someone to talk to. 

Instead, he went into his bedchamber and brought out a thick red blanket to cover her with. Cassian spent those precious hours before morning on his bedroom floor, cleaning and sharpening his weapons.

He hated Rhys for even  _ thinking _ he and Nesta had any real connection to one another. For even thinking they were  _ friends _ , let alone-

No, Nesta didn’t need to be friends with the males she took. They just needed to be positioned between her and alcohol… or vaguely fall within her line of sight.

He didn’t fault her for the sex, not really. It was her right to do what she wanted with whoever she wanted. He was angry because- because she didn’t  _ want _ it. She threw herself at males and looked more miserable after each. She wasn’t having sex because she wanted to, but because she was angry and scared and powerless to make that feeling go away.

No, the implied romance pissed Cassian off because it was just another reminder of his  _ failure _ . He couldn’t be in some unattached physical relationship with Nesta because he loved her too much… and he’d failed miserably at saving her from herself.

As to what that prick said afterwards-

Cassian’s hand tightened around the whetstone, turning his knuckles white. He snarled at the flames in the fireplace and willed them to consume him- but of course they did no such thing.

‘ _ Please _ , _ ’ _ he begged the old gods, ‘ _ let that entire army come right now. I’ll slice open at least half of them myself. _ ’

His attention was on that piece of his mind where Rhys spoke, but no word came of an attack. 

Unfortunately.

Cassian winced as something bright blinded one eye. It was coming from a rack of  _ djerid _ near the door. Nine throwing spears that fit into three obsidian inlaid quivers were glowing red-gold, reflecting the light of the rising sun.

Even though he knew it was pointless, he turned to look out the window behind him, where the sun was indeed rising between two mountains. Almost on queue, Rhys tugged at the edges of his mind, summoning him to the dining room.

With a sigh he set the whetstone back into its case and sheathed his  _ yatagan _ . Cassian took a moment to change from his day-old leathers into a new set, strapped the shortsword to his back, and headed for the door. He braced himself for Mor’s concerned gaze and turned the handle.

Elain, not Mor, was waiting in his sitting room. Cassian’s stomach churned at the worry and even trepidation in her eyes. She looked as if she hadn’t slept all night, but he could hardly blame her for that. 

No two beings in all of Prythian had more faith in Nesta than Elain and Cassian. They were the first to see the potential for greatness in her… and the last two to let go as she burned.

“Are you alright?” Elain asked before he could say anything.

“Not really. You?”

“Not really,” she looked down and blinked back the moisture in her eyes. “I’m going to see her in three days.”

“Why?” Cassian was surprised she hadn’t gone to Nesta  _ already _ .

Elain shrugged, “Maybe if she’s still here… then it’s real.”

Cassian expected wrath to boil through his veins like it did when he recalled Rhys’ similar hope, but instead he felt only pity for Elain. Her grip on hope was tenuous at best, and if-  _ when _ \- Nesta disappeared it would be the end. Elain needed one more disappointment to write off her big sister once and for all. 

It was only a matter of time.

Rhys’ tug came again, more insistent this time. Elain must have felt it too because she offered a sad smile and reached out to take Cassian’s hand, “Don’t let anyone make you do anything you’re not ready for.”

He stared at her for a long time before allowing Elain to pull him from the room. Why did his heart hurt so much more than it did when he thought she’d force him to visit Nesta?

The now-familiar cycle repeated itself as she walked him through the palace towards the dining hall. Shame for abandoning Nesta. A deep, aching sadness that things had gone so far. Guilt, at failing to protect her from Hybern  _ twice _ , resulting in this whole mess. Frustration as he recalled everything the entire Inner Circle had done to try and reach out to her. Anger at Nesta. Righteous indignation and the absolute  _ sureness _ that it was her who was at fault… Spiraling down back into shame.

It was a pattern established over two years, and a dance he’d been practicing a lot lately.

Yet another tug yanked at Cassian’s mind and he snarled at the thread that bound the Inner Circle to Rhys. Not being Daemati himself, it was a dice roll if Rhys actually got the message Cassian sent. He felt something straining in the connection and frowned.

“Elain?”

“Yes?”

Cassian pushed her hand off his arm, though he never looked back at her, “Go to the Hewn Palace. Now. Close yourself in a room and don’t let anyone but myself or Nuala in. You don’t have to go to  _ her _ , just pick somewhere with no windows.”

Elain grabbed the back of his shirt as he stepped away, “Cassian-”

“ _ Go. Now. _ ” The strain in his mind was growing, as was Rhys’ summons. Something was wrong.

Elain’s light footsteps retreated behind him as Cassian drew his  _ yatagan _ from it’s sheath. He wasn’t far from the dining room, and he crept forward as silently as possible. Rhys’ summons faded entirely, though their connection was still active.

He heard a strange, dull sound- almost like hooves on marble. Cassian pressed himself against the wall and slid the tip of his shortsword around the corner. He turned it in his hand until the reflection caught whatever was outside the dining room.

Rhys was standing in front of Feyre in long, dark-blue robes. Mor was in front of him, her own  _ kilij _ sword drawn. All were facing something on the balcony that Cassian couldn’t quite make out. There were too many figures, and too many wings to get a clear image. 

“Fine, I’ll ask again,” Rhys’ voice was… different. Lighter, and without the air of command he usually held. It held none of the strength of the Lord of Nightmares. This act was something entirely new, “Who are you, and what do you want?”

One of the figures spoke- a male with a deep, sensuous voice that somehow shook Cassian to his core. It was a voice of decay and ruin, the final sigh one made in their last seconds of life, “My name is Hades, and I have come to your land in search of my wife.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Rhys waited in the dining room for Feyre to wake. Guilt ate at him for daring to silence her words, and he honestly wasn’t sure if he would face her temper when she walked in the room or if she would ignore him entirely.

In a way, it reminded him of that first breakfast with Feyre two short years ago. He’d rescued her from the wedding and brought her to Night for the first time- and that night was just as restful as the one he’d spent on the couch. Against all odds, against all hope, she’d chosen him.

And then… he silenced her. Like those chauvinist males in Spring and Autumn who controlled their females as if they were servants. He shattered the trust she had in him, and with enemies on the horizon once again, Rhys wasn’t sure he could make things right in time.

Feyre’s mind was closed to him, it had been all night. Not even a whisper of emotion crossed their bond and his heart felt… cold.

Rhys was staring at his hands when long, delicate fingers grabbed his chin and raised his head. Blue-gray eyes met his, but there was no wrath in them. Only a deep, bruising pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said to his wife.

Feyre turned and let Rhys pull her down to sit on his lap. She took his head in both hands and forced him to hold her gaze, “ _ Never _ do that again.”

He nodded as best he could, “I swear.”

She nodded, then turned so that she could lean against Rhys’ broad chest. Feyre pulled his arms around her and interlaced their fingers. “Thank you,” she said. Even she wasn’t sure what she was talking about- the promise to never silence her, or for stopping her from cutting the withered limb from her family tree.

“Oh good, you two are being gross again,” Mor wandered into the dining room and swiped a blueberry muffin for her plate.

Rhys rested his chin on Feyre’s shoulder as they both stuck their tongues out at Mor.

“Any updates on our surprise guests yet?”

Feyre cocked her head to listen to his answer as well, so Rhys highlighted the reports from the night before, “Azriel verified beyond a doubt that the Cauldron is still in Cretea.” He felt the tension leave Feyre’s body as she breathed a sigh of relief, “He’s spreading word of the army throughout the camps, but I’m hoping he’ll be done soon. Cassian confirmed the army size but-”

He hesitated, which Feyre seized on, “But what?”

“Cassian was followed by an unusually persistent bird. He thinks it might have been a scout for the army. The Darkbringers are on high alert and ready to defend the Hewn City. Once the Camp Lords send word that they are ready, we can try making contact with the army to determine their purpose.”

“Is Nesta still here?” Mor asked. She was careful to keep her tone neutral. When Nesta first came to live in Night, Mor hated her because she  _ knew _ the girl would only hurt Cassian. As Nesta proved her right over and over again, she started feeling… sorry for the Archeron. Not that she would admit it on pain of death.

Feyre looked to Rhys for the answer to that as well. She actually looked surprised as Rhys nodded, “She hasn’t realized her door is unlocked yet, but Madja only left a few hours ago. She’s probably still asleep.”

“She’ll disappear again by tonight,” Feyre muttered.

Mor looked uneasy, “Actually, if I can make a request there?”

“What?” Rhys raised an eyebrow.

“Lock the door- and tell the guards to do their job and make sure she stays. An army might attack the Hewn City. Feyre, I know you’re frustrated, but if that army gets ahold of Nesta-”

“She’d probably join them willingly just to see me put in my place,” Feyre growled. Her oldest sister dedicated a large portion of her life to taking or ruining everything she managed to find that made things even a little easier on their family. In the hovel she’d stolen precious coins and even food sometimes. In Prythian she made life a living hell.

Mor didn’t want to push and sour the mood so early in the morning, but she had a bad feeling about what might happen if Nesta were to leave. “Call it a personal request from me. Okay?”

“Fine,” Feyre searched the palace for a guard’s mind and gave him the orders to pass along.

“Thank you,” Mor said. “Elain is talking to Cassian right now, but they should be down- what the hell is that?” She pointed to something outside the dining room that Rhys couldn’t see from his seat.

Feyre climbed off his lap and walked around to Mor’s side. Something was coming out from between the mountains, riding the wind halfway up one of the peaks. It’s movements were disjointed and strange. She turned to Rhys.

He was already reaching out to the creature with his mind, but found nothing there. Nor did it trip any of the wards that should have alerted the Hewn City and Palace of Nightmares to its presence as it exited the mountains and flew high over the valley towards them.

“Darkbringers, hold position,” Rhy’s voice boomed across the land. If this was related to the mountain army, he didn’t want them shooting the creature out of the sky and ruining any chance at a diplomatic solution.

Feyre put her hand on Rhys’ arm as the creature drew close enough to really see- and she realized it wasn’t a creature at all. A peregrin-esque male flew in front of a winged horse bearing two riders. The disjointed appendages on the ‘creature’ were the legs of the horse, running at a gallop even as it flew. 

“How do you want to play this?” Mor asked, flipping out her  _ kilij _ sword. She cursed herself for leaving the  _ yatagan _ in her chambers.

“Cassian isn’t listening to my summons,” Rhys growled and tugged at his friend’s mind again. Something was interfering with his ability to speak to Cassian. A building wave of pressure that came ahead of the small group. “Feyre- how do you feel about ruling alone?”

She considered it, then nodded. 

It was something they’d played before, as Feyre learned to command the Court of Nightmares. She would enter the Hewn City alone and preside in Rhys’ place, forcing Kier to acknowledge her as High Lady, not as some sex-toy for the High Lord, as he was wont to do. The first few times, Rhys would accompany her in the glamour of a simple advisor. He hardly changed his physical form for the ruse to work- no one could have imagined their mighty and cruel High Lord debasing himself with such an act.

In an instant, Rhys’ rumpled black tunic was replaced with long blue robes. Feyre’s pajamas transformed into a long black gown- tantalizing in its design but wicked in its simplicity. A crown of glittering black diamond completed the image. Feyre nodded to Mor and her husband.

Mor advanced towards the hallway first, her eyes on the figures as they grew larger. Behind her came Rhys as he slipped into the posture and stance of a scholar, not a warrior. The robes hid his corded muscles and made him appear completely nonthreatening. 

The peregrin male escorting the pack landed first- and in an instant Feyre knew something was wrong. His skin was a deep, rich brown flecked with a brilliant amber. The male was a head taller than even Rhys- Feyre’s  _ crown _ would barely come up to his chin. Unnaturally tall, unnaturally muscled. He wore a white tunic with a pearl-inlaid collar that opened all the way to his jeweled belt. Beneath it was a high-necked shirt and long, flowing linen pants.

Nothing about his dress or size was peregrin. Feyre almost took a step back at the sheer  _ might _ of the creature in front of her. It wasn’t until he turned his head and his eyes met hers that she realized what manner of creature stood before her- pure, molten gold without iris or pupil. Even his shoulder-length black hair seemed to glow with its own power.

He wasn’t fae. Feyre had never learned the name for what that creature was. In all of Prythian there was only one other of his kind-

-Amren.

“Who are you and why do you trespass in the High Lady’s palace?” Rhys snapped, hiding his nerves. He’d always feared Amren because, if she wished, she could destroy all of Prythian. Here was a male most likely her equal, and if this was just  _ one _ of the soldiers in that army then the war was already lost.

As the winged horse drew close enough that Feyre felt the wind stirr beneath its wings, the male pointed to his right, where a book sat upon the sofa Rhys had slept on. Mor and Rhys both moved closer together in front of Feyre as the male slowly stalked towards it.

“ _ Who are you and why do you trespass in the High Lady’s palace? _ ” Rhys repeated at a hiss.

The white horse landed, and from its back two males descended. They were- mercifully- cut from a different cloth as their winged friend. A cloth that might be easier to stab in battle.

One male had curly, sand-colored brunette hair and wore a strange kind of painted leather armor studded with bronze and steel. They looked like battle-leathers, but perhaps intended for combat with spears rather than swords. Metal guards protected his fore and upper arms, and his boots contained only a long metal plait on the front that laced intricately up the back of his calves.

The other male was corpse-pale with black hair and eyes. He wore a dark tunic- similar to those Rhys usually favored- embroidered in a shimmering black thread. The man’s eyes were sunken and dark from too many sleepless nights. The warrior was corded with muscle much like the giant winged one, but this other male was slight of frame. He would be the more dangerous fighter- fast and agile.

Rhys’ eyes were on the winged male as he picked up the book and held it between two hands. He closed his eyes and a pulse of light rippled through the three visitors. The dark one smiled, “Thank you, Zahariel.” He looked to Rhys, “And thank you all for your patience. We understand your tongue now.”

That voice- Feyre clenched her fist to try and fight the shivers that wracked her body. It conjured memories she’d buried for so long- the sound of her own neck snapping Under the Mountain, and the void in her world during those horrible minutes when Rhys lay still on the battlefield.

“Fine, I’ll ask again,” Rhys’ voice was light, “Who are you, and what do you want?”

The dark-eyed male, presumably the leader of this group, bowed his head, “My name is Hades, and I have come to your land in search of my wife.”

“That’s nice, however, missing persons cases are handled by the city guard. You are trespassing in the palace of the High Lady.”

“High Lady?” The male frowned and looked past Rhys to Feyre. He took in her gown and the crown upon her head with a hint of confusion, “Does that mean you, milady, are a… princess? I’ll need to speak with your father.”

“Prythian does not have Kings or Queens,” Feyre drew on the low, dangerous voice Rhys taught her to use as the Lady of Nightmares. “I am the ruler of this Court, not some child to be dismissed.”

The sandy-haired man winced and stepped forward, “Our apologies, High Lady. We do not have that particular title in our lands. No offense was meant. Among our kind many women hold positions of high power.”

“ _ Female _ ,” Mor snarled.

“Their ears,” the large man- Zahariel- said.

The shorter one looked at Feyre and Rhys more carefully. Mor’s hair covered her ears still, but he brightened immediately upon seeing the delicate points, “Oh! You’re elves!”

“Fae,” Mor said.

“Ooo,  _ fancy _ elves,” sandy-hair sketched a bow, then withered under the glare of Hades. “Sorry, again, no offense meant. My name is Bellerophon, and it’s been a long time since I was in polite society.”

“We might be more welcoming if you hadn’t moved an army into Night,” Rhys said.

Hades offered an apologetic smile, “We could not control where we entered this world, and didn’t dare send scouts out too far from our camp. No trespass or invasion was intended. As I said- I’m looking for my wife. She is well loved, and many of our people wanted to help retrieve her.”

“Not just your people,” Zahariel muttered.

“No, not just my people,” Hades said with a nod to the huge male. “I don’t think Persephone  _ has _ enemies. Even if the rest of us do…”

Feyre studied them as they spoke. When Rhys opened his mouth to ask another question, she stepped forward, “We should discuss this over breakfast. I’ve lived in war camps, I’m sure you’ll appreciate real food.”

‘ _ Why?’ _ Rhys couldn’t whisper in her mind, but he conveyed the message well enough via a raised eyebrow.

Feyre had actually accompanied two things with her simple invitation: She showed that they were willing to sit down in a more cordial fashion with the visitors, and casually informed the three that she and her people had been at war recently. As an added bonus, based on her own experience, breakfast tended to disarm people. The visitors might speak more freely over coffee than facing an armed Morrigan.

Only when Mor stepped aside to admit the visitors into the dining room did Feyre wink at Rhys. When he stalked in after Zahariel, she noticed Cassian peer around the corner at her. Feyre saw no harm in mouthing, ‘ _ Elain?’ _

_ ‘I sent her down to the Hewn Palace to hide, just in case, _ ’ Cassian replied slowly.

_ ‘Good,’ _ Feyre breathed a sigh of relief. Elain was the only member of their group with zero fighting ability. ‘ _ Wait a few minutes, then join us.’ _ She wanted the chance to see these visitors relatively at ease before they were met by a heavily armed Illyrian.

He nodded and disappeared back around his corner. Feyre was willing to bet that when he did formally arrive, it would be with twice as many weapons as he usually carried and in full armor.

Rhys went to the chair at the head of the table, but instead of taking his seat once more he pulled it out for her. Feyre sat without hesitation and, on the left side of the table, the other three took their seats.

The selection of food was much larger than it had been when Feyre, Mor, and Rhys stepped out. He’d obviously summoned more food for the larger group. Zahariel looked at the spread with disdain and Hades was more interested in her than anything edible. Bellerophon, however, stared at everything with wide eyes.

“Excuse me,” he said, “everything looks so good- what do you recommend?”

Feyre stared at him incredulously, then looked at the foods on the table. Various fruits, eggs prepared three different ways, toast, bagels, muffins, cinnamon rolls, bacon, ham, cherry tarts, roasted potatoes, and even a few quiche stretched before her. Granted, she’d never had such a selection at once before, but in the last days of her family’s wealth they’d still had many of the same foods. Even living in that cabin they managed eggs once in a rare while.

“Sorry, Bellerophon has been dead for quite some time,” Hades explained. He turned to his companion, “Bel, start with the potatoes.”

“Alright,” Bel leaned forwards and picked up a spoon to ladle some onto his plate, “we didn’t have these when I was alive.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Mor asked.

Zahariel decided to answer, “Roughly twenty-five hundred years passed between Bellerophon’s death and the transplantation of the potato to Eurasia.”

“Thanks,” Mor flashed a dazzling smile, “that helps a ton.”

Rhys choked on the cup of coffee he’d poured himself.

“I think, Hades, it might be better if we started this entire discussion over,” Feyre cut in before Zahariel- looking increasingly agitated- could speak. “Who are you precisely, why did you bring an army into my Court, and what are the circumstances around your wife’s disappearance? If she left you-”

“It was nothing like that,” Hades said quickly. He glanced to Zahariel, and Feyre knew she was only about to get half the truth, “I am an immortal King in our world, Zahariel here is- a rather  _ elite _ warrior, and Bellerophon is my nephew, an honored hero of man in his own right.”

He didn’t continue, but instead waited for Feyre to introduce herself and her Court.

“You may call me Feyre, so long as we get along. Lady Morrigan is my third in command, Lord Rhysand, my advisor,” there were footsteps from the doorway and Feyre nodded as Cassian entered- predictably in full armor with three swords strapped to his person, “and that would be Cassian, commander of my fae and Illyrian armies.”

“We have a people in our world who call themselves Illyrian,” Bel watched Cassian as he took his seat. Zahariel snarled at the jet-black wings and his own feathered ones seemed to fan out slightly.

“Fascinating,” Cassian nodded in deference to Feyre, playing his part, before turning back to Bel, “If that oversized pigeon on the balcony leaves any presents, I’m making you clean the floor with your tongue.”

“Pegasus is a horse, and I promise he’s well trained,” Bel replied. Even Hades rolled his eyes at the sincerity in his nephew’s voice as he continued, “Horses are an excellent means of transportation- but Pegasus is the only one with wings. They’re also used by many as beasts of burden. They can cover large distances, pull great loads, and be trained to-”

“We have horses in Prythian,” Mor sighed. “Cassian dear, don’t try sarcasm with this one. He’s a bit slow.”

“Play nice,” Feyre suppressed her grin.

“Now, tell us the circumstances surrounding your wife’s disappearance,” Rhys drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, impatient.

Hades sighed and seemed to wilt in his chair, “That is a long story.”

“Well, considering you currently have a small  _ army _ camped in my High Lady’s territory, I suggest you pour yourself a cup of coffee and trust that there is plenty of food for everyone,” Rhys looked eerily similar to Kier as he spoke.

Even Hades’ temper flared at that. He opened his mouth to snap back at Rhys, but Bel’s hand shot out to grab his uncle’s arm. The mirth was fading from his face and before he thought to pull his mask back up, Feyre caught a glimpse of the arrogant and prideful hero who evidently perished so long ago.

Hades forced the snarl back and took a deep, calming breath, “We were in hiding. Persephone, myself, and several members of our family. Zahariel’s master decided my kind was too powerful and too destructive for the good of humanity. There was some merit to his position, I admit, but Persephone, myself, and those in our kingdom  _ rarely _ interacted with the outside world. We were innocent of the charges leveled against our kind.”

“I was sent as part of a Host to seek them out. They were holed up in two sister-cities, Sodom and Gomorrah. We wiped them off the face of the earth just to get at Hades and his ilk,” Zahariel directed his words to Cassian in some kind of attempt at intimidation. Cassian just yawned. “Hades was kept in my Father’s prisons with the rest of his kind for millennia. It was only when my Father decided to forgive and release his kind that we realized Queen Persephone was missing.”

“I thought she’d escaped, gone further underground,” Hades sighed. “But Zahariel’s King questioned his Host. Someone saw Persephone fleeing Gomorrah when she disappeared. Persephone is every bit as powerful as I am- but we don’t have the ability to simply vanish. Disappear from sight yes- in certain situations- but Zahariel’s kind are immune to that skill.”

“For decades now, Hades has been amassing a following of their kind- those who loved or respected Queen Persephone.” From the way he said her name, Feyre could tell Zahariel was fond of the missing queen. 

Bel swallowed hard, “The spell that was cast was done from the exact spot Persephone disappeared- or at least as near as we can tell. It should have brought us through to the exact spot she arrived in. We didn’t have any idea what the layout of your lands might be, or what kind of reception we could expect. Our scouts have been venturing out into the woods in search of civilization, but we found none.”

“A month ago one of our scouts caught sight of a woman retreating into the forest,” Hades said. “We’d hoped she would bring her people back to us.”

“She did,” Rhys said, “we received the message last night.”

“My brother’s scout followed a winged creature until it found a road, there isn’t much to the south but when it flew north it found this palace.”

Cassian growled softly at Hades’ words, “Who are you calling ‘winged creature’?”

“Well, if it was you then you’re aware the scout in question was an eagle,” Bel said. “It’s never seen something like you before, ‘winged creature’ was the best it managed.”

“I’ve known Cassian for centuries. ‘Winged Creature’ is fine,” Rhys said.

Feyre was still considering the issue at hand. Something about Zahariel’s story sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The feeling came as he described the cities he destroyed to find Hades and his family.

“High Lady?” Hades interrupted her train of thought, and judging by the looks on Rhys, Cassian, and Mor’s faces, it wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to her.

“How long ago would Persephone have come to Prythian?” she asked. “You mentioned ‘millennia’ and ‘decades’- I have been High Lady of Night for around two years. Before that, this continent was invaded by a- a female more bloodthirsty and tyrannical than you can imagine. We’re still figuring out how many of my people were killed in the past fifty years.”

Bel shook his head, “She won’t be dead, not permanently at least. It isn’t possible for our kind.”

“In our world,” Hades’ was ashen-faced, “we don’t know what the laws are here.”

Despite his obvious contempt for Hades, Zahariel actually looked sorry for him, “Time seems to pass differently in your world than ours. It took a long time to figure out how to open the door between worlds because of it. Your world is much, much slower. Months here might be seconds there. Persephone’s disappearance happened around twenty-five hundred years ago for us. For you, it would be  _ at least _ five thousand.”

“Fifteen thousand, actually,” a female voice came from the door. With a wicked grin, Amren stared down Zahariel, “Have you missed me, brother?”

The male went still, then slowly turned to face the door. As much as she’d changed since becoming High Fae, he must have still been able to sense what once lurked beneath her skin. He stared up at her with hope burning in his eyes. 

“Azrael?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** URL CHANGE Notice: My tumblr, Ao3, and FF accounts have all changed from Rhysand-vs-Rowan to Rhysand-vs-FENRYS. All satellite accounts (ie, Rhysand-vs-Fenrys-vs-Writing) have also been altered. ***

**Chapter 6**

She ran for the ocean as quickly as she could.

Tremors and explosions shook the earth beneath her feet, screams echoed all around her- but how much of it was real? How much of the city was left?

Tears for the innocent lives destroyed blurred her vision. They were good people-  _ kind _ people- whose only crime was giving shelter to travelers. None of them declared themselves gods of the city. They avoided their shrines and temples and only sought to live quietly. 

Then the Host arrived.

People started dying, with no idea why or how to make the attack stop. The rounding up of the Grecians was punishment for interfering in the lives of humans, leading to the slaughter of hundreds of thousands in war… but how was this any different? Even if she had no part in the Great War of Troy, at least those heroes died fighting for  _ something _ . The people of the twin cities would die for nothing.

But she couldn’t save them. She’d tried, but as the archangels entered Gomorrah, she was forced to flee.

The worst part was seeing the death in Zahariel’s eyes as he stalked towards her. They were friends- he’d visit her for tea in the gardens of the Underworld once a week, after delivering souls to the kingdom of hell controlled by his Father. But she knew that history would not save her. There was no room for compromise or free will in his life. Not once orders were given. He wasn’t her friend anymore, and so she blasted the outer wall of a building into him and ran.

Her lungs burned as she dodged debris and rubble. Using her power would only serve as a beacon to the monsters destroying the cities, so she kept her physical form, pushed it to its limits and beyond. She could hear wings behind her as Zahariel freed himself and took off. He was getting closer and closer, she ran on only the tips of her toes.

A stone beneath her foot twisted, snapping her ankle to one side and sending her flying into the desert sands-

-everything went dark, and Persephone landed on a bed of fallen leaves.

She thought she must have been knocked unconscious, but her heart was racing and her breathing was ragged. Her skin radiated heat, but the air in this place was cold. Humid- at least compared to the desert.

Persephone reached out with her mind. She felt others appearing in this place- creatures as powerful as she was from dozens, perhaps even hundreds of distant lands. A crack of thunder sounded above her and suddenly an angel exploded from nothing. Not Zahariel, but his bloodthirsty sibling Azrael. She scrambled across the twilight ground, desperate to hide beneath a sprawling oak tree.

The Archangel saw her in an instant. It’s wings vanished and it dropped through the trees to the forest floor to land in an explosion of power and force.

Persephone was thrown back into the trunk of the tree. She and Azrael should have been evenly matched, yet she was exhausted and far from the worshippers whose prayers bolstered her power. The Archangel was created to be independent of it’s Father’s followers, a way to keep His children from declaring  _ themselves _ as gods.

“Where are we?” Azrael hissed. In its hand appeared a flaming sword that cast a flickering glow on the dim clearing.

“I don’t know,” Persephone gasped against the bar of power across her chest and throat.

“Don’t you  _ dare _ lie to me, Grecian.”

“I was running from Zahariel and then I was here,” she choked. “I swear Azrael,  _ I don’t know _ !”

The Archangel snarled and raised it’s sword, “I don’t believe you.”

“No-”

“I’m going to stab you now, Persephone. It will hurt in ways you cannot imagine. You’re going to die, your immortality will drag you back, and I will ask you again.”

“ _ Please _ !”

Azrael stepped forward and drove the tip of it’s sword through Persephone’s heart and deep into the tree behind her. He let the fires of the blade burn her soul- but she never screamed. Her eyes went wide and blood trickled from beneath her lips, but not a sound escaped. She should have been trapped until the sword was pulled free, only then would she die for an hour or so. But as Azrael held the blade, her head tipped forward and her eyes closed.

It pulled the blade free and Persephone slumped to the forest floor, but the wound didn’t heal. Not in an hour or even a day.

Azrael stared at the body as it began to decay over weeks-  _ months _ . Gods didn’t die, it wasn’t possible. It had to be a trick, and the Archangel would stay exactly where it was until she pulled herself together again.

But no matter how long they waited, the Queen of the Underworld never moved.

Never healed.

Never stopped decaying.

Never opened her eyes.

\---

* * *

 

\---

“No,” Hades whispered as tears fell.

“Amren, get behind me,” Cassian pulled the small female out of her chair and stood.

“You’re lying,” he growled as black smoke began to rose from his skin. 

Cassian fanned his wings out, shielding her from sight entirely.

Amren pulled his wing down, “Hades, I didn’t know-”c

“SHE ISN’T GONE!” he screamed. Darkness exploded throughout the room and Cassian barely raised his shield in time to block the blast from hitting himself, Amren, or Mor. Rhys and Feyre threw up their own shields as the table exploded. Shards of glass and porcelain rocketed in every direction.

“ _ I’m sorry! _ ” Amren kept a grip on Cassian’s wing, preventing him from launching himself at Hades and probably dying on the blade Zahariel summoned. Even Bel was on his feet as the darkness cleared, unarmed yet ready for a fight.

“I would have known,” Hades face was contorted in pure, unchecked rage. “If she was  _ murdered _ where we set camp, I WOULD HAVE KNOWN!”

“It was a long time ago. None of us knew the rules of this world-”

With a wordless shout, he threw himself over the debris at Cassian, only to hit a wall of raw power thrown across the room by Rhysand.

“I know you’re upset Hades, but Amren is second in command of this Court behind the High Lady. Attacking her amounts to a declaration of war, no matter what she might have done  _ fifteen thousand years ago _ .”

“She’s my  _ wife _ , I won’t let her murderer walk free!” Hades lunged for Amren again, but was caught in a web of Feyre’s magic and thrown back against the wall.

She sounded braver than she felt when she dusted off her black skirts and calmly said, “Gods or just arrogant pricks, it doesn’t matter either way. If you so much as touch my second in command, I will mobilize fifty-thousand fae soldiers against you. If you don’t think that will be enough, I’m sure Amren’s lover wouldn’t mind mobilizing  _ his _ fifty-thousand soldiers. Even if their power is half of mine, do you honestly think you can survive?” 

Feyre fudged some of the details, not that Hades would know. For one, throwing him back was exhausting. His power flowed through the world differently, like oil on water. She also took advantage of his ignorance- any fae would know  _ Tarquin _ , not Varian, was the one who chose where his armies marched.

Still, it was the only thing she could think to say.

“We shouldn’t wait,” Mor snarled. Her  _ kilij _ was out again and ready to strike. “High Lady, why don’t we just kill them now and say they threatened you in your own palace? Self-proclaimed  _ gods _ died in the war with Hybern, no one would blink an eye at another.” 

Hades introduced himself as a king, and honestly there was nothing surprising about Amren’s declaration of divinity. He was no god in their world, and certainly nothing greater than Hybern had been once he possessed the Cauldron.

On the other side of the room, Hades was breathing hard, and every scrap of darkness seemed to gather around him. Black lightning crackled beneath his skin, looking for a way out. A target. Zahariel put a hand on his shoulder, “This isn’t over.” He was speaking to Rhys and Feyre. “We will return to our camp for now, but this is not over.”

“No, it damn well isn’t,” Hades snarled, and let Zahariel pull him towards the door. “High Lady-” he pointed to Cassian, Amren still behind him, “I’m coming back for that one’s head. Find another second, and don’t get in my way.”

“Don’t-” Amren said when Cassian made to follow them out. “Zahariel will carry him if he has to, but they’re leaving. Don’t make this worse.” 

She understood Hades reaction, but her brother was not so passionate. Her description of the incident was no different than the procedures they both used in rounding up the gods in the first place- execute them the heavenly blade and by the time they pulled themselves back, they were imprisoned.

Amren wasn’t scared or even angry. She wasn’t even sad, merely… resigned. Feyre walked around the table and watched Hades climb onto the horse with Bel and launch into the sky, Zahariel on their heels.

“Why did they leave so easily?” she directed her question at Amren. “If I just found out someone hurt Rhys, no shield would stop me.”

“Hades will try to rally the others and strike in force, but my brother will be reasonable.”

Mor wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the lingering chill Hades’ mist left in the room, “ _ Amren _ .”

“It wasn’t my decision,” she hissed.

Rhys rubbed at his eyes and let the guise of the adviser fall away. Back in his rumpled black tunic, he walked around the debris to Feyre and pulled her into a tight embrace. He was shaking.

‘ _ What’s wrong? _ ’ she whispered to his mind, praying that with their guests departure he could hear.

He shook his head and buried his face against her neck while he drew long, deep breaths. Feyre looked over his shoulders to the others- every last one of them found somewhere else to turn.

‘ _ If you won’t tell me, I’ll make them. _ ’

‘ _ You can’t. _ ’

‘ _ Watch me, _ ’ her tone was gentle, but firm. ‘ _ It wasn’t an act, remember? I am High Lady of Night. Rhys- whatever you know, I have to know too. _ ’

“No,” he spoke aloud as the walls to his mind rose. Rhys pulled back from her, “I’m sorry Feyre.”

“What? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“No.”

She looked to the others. Every last one of them looked away, “ _Someone_ _tell me what’s going on!_ ” Feyre even drew on her power as High Lady to compel an answer, but none of them spoke. “Fine, then _why_ won’t you tell me?”

“Because there’s nothing to tell,” they all murmured the same words at the same time. It was automatic, almost rehearsed.

Feyre stared at the group- at her mate- for a long time, “How am I supposed to rule this Court if there are secrets I can’t know?”

He didn’t offer an answer, but this time she wasn’t waiting for one.

Skirts whispered against stone as Feyre walked slowly out of the ruined dining room.

Rhys closed his eyes, “Mor, can you take Amren to Velaris? She probably shouldn’t be out and about if a god wants her dead.”

“Because Hybern was too easy, now we pick fights with  _ gods _ ,” Cassian muttered.

Amren ignored Cassian, “Summer first. If I’m going to be on lockdown I want Varian there,” she held out a hand for Mor to grasp.

The females vanished, leaving Rhys and Cassian alone until the Illyrian muttered something about Elain and disappeared.

Then, all that was left was Rhys. Feeling just as shitty as he had before Feyre woke up.

\---

* * *

 

\---

Azriel returned around midday.

He found Rhys in the dining room- or what had been the dining room. It was completely void of furniture. Azriel’s keen eyes picked out blemishes in the walls and floor where debris had gouged at the stone. Something exploded with enough force to cause damage, yet there was no scent of blood lingering in the air.

“What happened?”

Rhys was staring out across the mountains from a balcony. At first Azriel thought he hadn’t heard the question, but before he could repeat himself the High Lord spoke, “The army in the mountains is comprised of gods, undead heroes, and an unknown number of Amren’s kin. We met one but… there are others back with the army.”

Amren’s kin- Azriel knew all too well what that meant. Prythian had no real protection from her when she was at full power. Even Rhys was afraid of her, and now there were more. Azriel’s stomach twisted, “What do they want?”

“They all came looking for someone named Persephone. Their leader is her husband. But it’s funny,” Rhys turned slowly to look back at Azriel, “Amren says she killed her fifteen thousand years ago.”

“What’s funny about that?” Azriel said.

“She was lying. We all knew it- and when Feyre asked me what was wrong I couldn’t tell her anything.”

He saw the darkness fill Azriel’s eyes, confirming what Rhys long suspected, “I’m going to ask you something, and then I’m going to walk away. I don’t want to fight with anyone else today, I’m sick of it. You decide on your own and I will find a way to deal with it. You know what the right thing to do is, I don’t have to make that case.”

“Then ask and get out,” Azriel snapped.

Rhysand walked over to his Shadowsinger, “Make Feyre take the oaths, just like the rest of us. If Hades declares war against Amren, Feyre will be putting her life on the line too. She deserves to know why.”

He didn’t give Azriel any chance to reply. Instead, Rhys vanished in an explosion of black smoke and thunder. Azriel knew where he would go, even without the whisper of his shadows in his ear. He would go to the Black Archives of the High Lords- where the darkest secrets of Night were kept. A library only he and Feyre could ever step foot inside.

While Azriel was left to make his decision, Rhysand was going to reread the history of the blood that drenched his throne.

The story of the Night-Mother.

The story of Persephone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Nesta couldn’t remember the last time she slept so soundly or woke so peacefully.

As a mortal she was always afraid. She was scared of losing her mother, then scared of the hunger in Elain and Feyre’s eyes when the family starved. As much as she hated their father and waged war against her youngest sister, she was terrified every time Feyre entered those woods. When Feyre was taken to Spring and Nesta failed to find a path through the Wall- she thought that was what Hell must be like.

When Feyre returned only to head back into sure death, Nesta mourned. When she came home changed and brought the promise of war to their home fear made her sick. Then she and Elain were taken and changed. She suffered an eternity of drowning and being re-formed, was broken by terror at the vacancy in Elain’s eyes, and then Nesta Archeron was filled with more hatred than she knew what to do with. 

The last two years she’d spent in an alcohol-induced coma that buried her in rage and shame. Even the month-long trek to and from Devlon’s camp was filled with spite and the fatigue of disease.

Madja sat up all night talking to her, teaching Nesta how to cool her temper when her instincts said to bite and reminding her the road back wasn’t going to be easy. She had to be prepared to fail, and she had to know that failure only became permanent if she gave up. No one would forgive her easily. No one would forget the things she said and did. 

As much time as she spent ruining her relationship with Feyre and the others, it could very well take as long to mend the rifts.

But Nesta went to sleep with hope and clarity. More than she’d felt in a long time.

With no windows in the chambers granted her, she had no idea how long she slept or what time of day it was. Nesta was light and warm, without demons whispering in her ears. Even as she woke, she planned to stay curled up beneath the soft comforter as long as possible- at least, until her stomach growled in warning.

Secretly, she hoped no one visited her for a couple of days yet. She wanted to focus on healing herself- and not just physically- before she faced them. It was easy to plan for a brighter future on her own, but how easy would it be with Feyre standing in front of her? If she opened her bedroom door on Cassian, would she lash out in retribution for his abandonment? Would she be able to stop herself from resuming that fight with Amren that drove her away?

So, happily alone for the moment, Nesta pulled herself from between the sheets and brushed her hair. She’d been forbidden from calling or sending for anyone- but that didn’t extend to asking for food, right? The ban was to protect the others from her, not to keep her from basic necessities.

For the hell of it, Nesta changed from pajamas to a clean gray dress and opened the door to her bedroom.

_ ‘No, _ ’ she froze halfway through the door, ‘ _ no no no no no no _ .’

Feyre was sitting on the couch in a shimmering obsidian gown suited for the Court of Nightmares. She’d removed the crown from her braided hair and it sat beside her, black diamonds twinkling in the faelights. 

In her hands was a tall vial of opalescent liquid that Feyre watched, seemingly transfixed by the small rainbows shimmering within. It was one of ten vials in a small carrier that had been placed neatly on the coffee table along with several covered dishes of food. She was so focused on the colors in the potion that she hadn’t noticed Nesta yet- or wasn’t acknowledging her. The elder Archeron took a step back, perhaps to hide in her bedchamber until Feyre was gone. 

Naturally, her stomach chose that precise moment to make a loud, vulgar noise. 

Nesta froze. Her every instinct told her to stand up straight, raise her chin, and stare down her nose at Feyre like she always had. Her dignity bristled at the sight of her youngest sister casually invading her privacy with that crown sitting beside her like some skeleton key. She could go anywhere and do whatever she wanted, regardless of who occupied the space.

‘ _ Ten, nine, eight- _ ’ Nesta closed her eyes and began counting, forcing herself to relax. She told herself over and over again that if she said the words bubbling up in her throat, she was the only one who would be wallowing in them whenever Feyre left.

‘ _ Do you want to feel horrible later? Then ignore your entire personality. _ ’

“Do you want me to pretend you’re not standing there?” Feyre asked, casually placing the vial back among the others. She folded her hands on her lap and looked to Nesta. “I had a shitty morning and I’m using this as a hiding place. You ignore me, I ignore you. Deal?”

“Deal,” Nesta said quickly, though she made no move closer to Feyre.

‘ _ Why did she have to come here of all places? There’s a huge city outside, other rooms in this palace and the one on top of the mountain- she can winnow anywhere in Prythian! Why here?’ _

Feyre sighed- though it sounded more like a growl, “Shields.” Nesta hadn’t bothered with shields for nearly a year. Part of her didn’t care, the other part  _ wanted _ Feyre and Rhys to hear every horrible thought that ran through her empty mind. It took some doing, but she managed to re-form her walls of ice and steel. “And I came  _ here _ because it’s the only place they won’t look.”

They were supposed to be ignoring each other, but Nesta found herself asking, “Is there any news about the army or Cauldron?”

Her stomach growled again and Feyre rolled her eyes, “Would you just eat something already?”

‘ _ I’ll eat when I damn-well please, _ ’ Nesta wanted to snap. She bit the words down and counted again, then slowly came forward into the room. 

Feyre didn’t bother moving from the sofa, though she did pick up the crown and deposit it on a side table, “It isn’t the Cauldron. Azriel says that’s still with Miryam and Drakon. We didn’t get a chance to ask about it this morning either.”

Nesta frowned as she sat, “What does that mean?”

While her sister winced at the sharp bite of her own tone, Feyre just shook her head, “The leaders of that army came to pay us a visit over breakfast.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“It should have been.”

Feyre had an infuriating habit of chewing on her words, so Nesta didn’t push. Instead, she started lifting the lids from her food. Diced chicken in a pale cream sauce, brown rice, and a mixture of steamed vegetables. Madja had warned her she would be put on a diet of bland foods that were easy for her body to digest while the medicines helped repair her body.

It was only once Nesta finished scooping chicken and sauce over her rice that Feyre continued, “They came from the same world as Amren. One of her brothers and- apparently- a god of some sort.”

Nesta almost asked again if that was a good thing- even though everything in Feyre’s demeanor said otherwise.

“The entire thing- army and all- was a rescue mission for some goddess… but Amren claims to have killed her after arriving here.”

“You don’t believe her,” Nesta asked between bites of food. Once she smelled the chicken it was impossible to resist. A hot meal after so long in the forest was a revelation.

Feyre shrugged, “She could be telling the truth. During the war with Hybern she  _ supposedly _ told me about her arrival in Prythian, but I guess she might have just lied. Either that or she decided to lie today and might have just ignited another war for fun.”

There was a bite to her tone and Nesta found a sliver of pity creeping into her heart even as the sick fear she’d lived with for weeks flared. 

‘ _ Feyre’s always been such a trusting little tw- _ ’ Nesta shut down the line of thought immediately. That poison was what landed her in such an awful situation in the first place. ‘ _ Feyre puts more faith in people than I do. That’s it.’ _

Amren didn’t confide in people, that was why Nesta got along with her so well for so long. If Feyre thought Amren trusted her enough to share a bit of her past only to find out it was some fiction, it would hurt her sister.

“Amren’s been in Prythian for thousands of years, and from what I know she changed a lot since Rhysand made her part of his Inner Circle,” that exclusive, preppy little club Nesta both despised and wanted to be a part of with every fiber of her being.

Feyre shrugged, “If we’re lucky her brother will convince Hades of that. He didn’t seem surprised, more disappointed at the news. I think he understands… but if I have to go to war to protect Amren, I will.” Feyre sighed again and slumped further into the couch, “It’s guaranteed neither Kier nor the Illyrians will raise a finger to help though.”

The last part was said more to herself than to Nesta. 

Silence stretched between them as Nesta left her sister to her thoughts. It was hardly a comfortable silence, but for the first time in ages the eldest Archeron wasn’t at fault.

‘ _ This might be the longest we’ve ever spoken without fighting, _ ’ she thought as she ate her lunch. Part of her was still annoyed with Feyre’s very presence and hated her for the crown so casually dumped on her side table, but Madja said that poisonous envy would be drawn out in time. 

‘ _I was going to leave forever_ ,’ she reminded herself, just to see what that felt like. She was so sure when she walked into those mountains, but ever since she saw that army- the threat of war pulled her back somehow. 

Killing Hybern ripped out a piece of her soul the Cauldron had already left ravaged. Having something to do though- having a mission- it gave her purpose. Something to work towards. She felt grounded and awake, not adrift and asleep. 

“It was the same for me,” Feyre said quietly. “I was drowning until Rhys made me a part of something.” She saw Nesta recoil slightly out of the corner of her eye and added, “Sorry, shields.”

Nesta pulled them up again quickly. Her cheeks burned red at the piece of her soul Feyre saw. She knew her sister was capable of locking out the minds of everyone around her, she  _ had _ to be eavesdropping on Nesta’s thoughts. In respect of that, Nesta decided she wouldn’t feel guilty if Feyre was angry with anything she’d heard. It was hard enough keeping herself from saying the horrible things racing through her heart and mind.

Feyre tapped her knee silently until Nesta finished the potions and returned to her food. When no fight broke out over her intrusion, she sighed, “We had to change the orders given to your guards. They were told to keep you here for the foreseeable future.”

“So I’m a prisoner?” Nesta snapped before she could stop herself. Indignation was her biggest weakness, it could very well make her forget her desire to be kind.

“For a little bit, I think you might be. If that army somehow gets ahold of you it would be a complication I’d rather avoid.”

‘ _ And I’m already enough of a complication on my own. _ ’  She caught Feyre watching her, “What?”

“Nothing, sorry. I thought you were going to say something.”

“I’m trying to be nicer,” now she was just  _ daring _ Feyre to comment.

Her sister watched her a moment before shrugging, “I appreciate that.”

But there was no fondness in her voice, no warming sisterly bond. Nesta had broken the trust of the trusting High Lady too often. Besides, showing basic courtesy wasn’t anything special- even if it was unique for her.  

Madja had told her to expect that. She reminded Nesta time and again that they wouldn’t respond to her in any meaningful way. Not after everything she put them through. It was the old healer’s way of managing her expectations. Nesta would have to prove herself until she was sick of them all and ready to give up- even then she was likely only halfway there. 

Nesta was the one who decided to stay and fix things. Destruction was easy, healing took time. She repeated it over and over again.

‘ _ Destruction is easy. Healing takes time. _ ’

Maybe her shields slipped. Maybe it was a concession Feyre intended to make with the news that Nesta was stuck in that suite like a prisoner, “In the Hewn City they use paintings to tell time. I’ve ordered one brought here for you so you can tell if it’s day or night outside. I know you’re not used to being underground… if it becomes too much, your guards have been informed that you have permission to take up residence on one of the lower levels of the Palace of Nightmares. There are no balconies and the windows are narrow, but you can see outside.”

“Thank you.”

“You still can’t contact anyone. It’s up to them to come to you if they want, but… at least there’s sunlight.”

A soft knock sounded at the door. Feyre looked over as it swung inward, “Can I borrow you?” It was Azriel who stood on the other side. He was wearing full armor and there was cold death in his eyes. He looked… angry. Whatever his purpose, Azriel came for Feyre, and didn’t even spare a glance in Nesta’s direction.

“Fine,” Feyre replied brusquely. Whatever Rhysand did to piss her off, she held Azriel responsible by association. She stood to gather her crown and leave.

“Azriel?” Nesta said. He answered with a raised eyebrow, “I just wanted to say thank you for everything you did yesterday. And thank you for bringing Madja.”

The cruel glare in his eyes softened and Azriel nodded as Feyre gathered her crown and made her way across the room to him. 

She hesitated at the door, “Give your guards a list of things you may want to pass the time. If a book or craft cannot be found in the Court of Nightmares, I will authorize Nuala and Cerridwen to bring something from Velaris.”

“Thank you,” Nesta said. Feyre didn’t look at her as she headed out into the hall and Azriel closed the door.

Nesta slumped into the couch cushions and let out the breath she’d been holding. It was far from a perfect encounter but… the best they’d had in years. 

‘ _ Maybe I can do this after all… _ ’

\---

* * *

 

\---

Feyre followed Azriel in silence through the Hewn Palace. He didn’t speak to her, and those walls around his mind stayed expertly in place. 

Long after she lost track of where in the castle’s labyrinthine halls they were, Azriel stopped in front of an old portrait of a male tied to four horses pulling in opposite directions. Feyre winced at the agony expertly rendered on the male’s face.

Black mist exploded from Azriel, racing around Feyre and back down the hallway in either direction. She didn’t see anyone following them, but he wasn’t taking any chances as he tapped on knots in the gilded frame. With a soft  _ click _ it swung outwards, revealing a hole nearly as large as the painting.

“What is this?” Feyre asked as Azriel reached into the darkness and pulled out a web of thick black cords.

He said nothing as he climbed up the netting and disappeared into the hole. His hand shot back out of the darkness, inviting her inside. 

Feyre cursed under her breath. Rhys taught her how to change her clothes magically, but she still only got it right half the time. It just wasn’t something she’d bothered practicing. That was why she was still wandering around in the black dress and diamond crown he’d put on her when Hades arrived.

“Don’t look.”

“I’m not.”

She focused on what she  _ wanted _ to be wearing and where in her wardrobe it might be. In a flash her dress and crown were gone (hopefully they’d appeared on her bed) and an icy draft kissed her skin. The clothes she’d wanted- a peach top, loose pants, and magenta slippers- fell to the floor in front of her.

Azriel waited with his hand outstretched and his face turned inward to the hidden passage. Once Feyre was ready to climb up the netting she grabbed his hand and he hauled her up into the passage.

“Pull up the net and hold the door closed until you hear a click,” Azriel said. The entrance to the tunnel was comprised of a high, narrow ledge with gradual drops behind it. He crawled forward into the darkness, guided by whispers only he could hear. Once it was safe to stand, he waited for the sound of the locks re-setting before throwing up a fae light.

“What is this place?” Feyre whispered as she crawled into the tunnel after him.

Azriel didn’t answer. Instead he held out his hand once more and waited for Feyre to take it. Once she did, he pulled her along behind him, “I know you don’t like being underground, but we have a ways to walk.” The hand was a reminder that she wasn’t alone, and a gesture of sympathy even as he dragged her further into the twisting passage.

“I’m okay,” she said, though Azriel could probably feel the shudder that wracked her body as they approached a spiral staircase. While they descended, she peeked over the edge of the rail and sent a fae light of her own down into the pit.

It disappeared from sight before reaching the bottom.

“The steps will retract into the walls once we reach the bottom,” Azriel murmured. “It was meant as a security feature- to make it impossible to leave unless the guards above allow. This works in our favor though- they weren’t concerned with flying fae. I can carry you out.” Feyre wasn’t trained to fly in such narrow spaces.

She was about to say they could just winnow to the surface, but then she felt something pressing in from the walls. Ancient wards older than even those around Velaris. Winnowing would be impossible.

It felt like the stairs stretched all the way down into hell itself- and even then their journey was only halfway done. By the time they reached the bottom of the pit Feyre had released Azriel’s hand so that both could walk more comfortably.

If there was any doubt in her mind as to the purpose of the strange space, it disappeared at the sight of a rough cave with ancient steel bars sealing off one end. 

A prison built for one.

There were manacles attached directly to the wall, and between them the open maw of neck irons. Two long chains stretched from the walls and ended in cuffs. Ankle restraints.

Azriel stared into the cell, clenching and unclenching his fists. His shadows roiled around him. As promised, the stairs retracted back into the walls the moment Feyre stepped onto the floor of the prison. Within moments, they were trapped.

“I need you to do something, Feyre,” Azriel whispered.

“I’ll do it,” Feyre said immediately. She felt an ancient, horrible ache in the black walls. Something terrible had happened in that prison. Something that had to do with Rhys’ secrets.

“It will hurt-”

“I said I’ll do it.”

“Fine… you should sit down,” Azriel turned back to face her. There was no kindness in his eyes. No friendship. He hated Feyre for making him reveal whatever he’d brought her there to see.

She obeyed, sitting against the curved wall of the missing staircase.

“You’ll take five oaths. After each, the mark of your oath will be carved on the inside wall of your spinal cord.”

“Understood,” she shivered and for a moment wondered if she really wanted to know what Azriel had to say.

“On your life- do you swear to never repeat what I’m about to tell you, save in my presence without any trickery, imprisonment, or impediment to my freedom of any kind?”

“I swear.” Feyre gasped as something sharp and vicious raced up her back. It felt like a knife blade dragged along her skin from the inside out. As quickly as it faded, a burning itch remained.

“On your life- do you swear that in word, thought, writing, or deed you will never allow to be known what I’m about to tell you, and will never conspire against me or my blood?”

“I don’t understand-” Feyre swallowed her words and took a deep breath before saying, “I swear.”

The pain was twice as strong and lasted twice as long this time. Now it felt like fire burned through her body. She whimpered as she fought back against it.

“On your life- swear that if confronted with the names ‘Persephone’ or ‘Night Mother’, you will deny their existence in Prythian.”

Azriel demanded the oath before the pain had even faded. She hadn’t processed the names before saying, “I swear.”

He kneeled and took Feyre’s hands as she cried out and writhed against the agony in her back. Azriel held her up when her legs spasmed and threatened to knock her over, but he did not relent, “On your life- do you swear that if an answer is forced, you will say she died her first day in Prythian?”

Shaking, Feyre stared up at Azriel, and at the complete lack of mercy in his eyes. Amren told Hades she’d died. Did she lie to Feyre, or to him?

“ _ On your life do you swear that if an answer is forced _ -”

“I swear,” she whimpered. 

When her screams faded, Azriel was beside her rather than in front. He held her tightly, protecting her from her own agony, “Last one, I promise. On your life- do you swear to never let it be known that you swore these oaths?”

Feyre took several deep breaths before nodding.

“I need you to say it.”

“I-I swear.”

The whole world vanished in an explosion of pain that ripped through Feyre’s body. Her own screams echoed around her. Azriel kept her pinned to his chest as she tried to do  _ something _ to escape the agony. It was a deeper, more profound pain than when Amarantha killed her, and yet part of her mind went back to that awful day. She could hear Rhysand’s screams, Tamlin’s roars- she could  _ see _ Amarantha snarling as she broke every bone in Feyre’s body and ripped the muscles to shreds.

But then it all disappeared. The pain vanished, her screams turned to sobs, and Feyre felt something press against her lips. She opened her mouth and a strong, sweet liquor burned her tongue and throat. Feyre choked even as she grabbed blindly at Azriel’s wrist and tipped more into her mouth.

He disappeared from her side once she was done, leaving Feyre to find her way back from the pain of her oaths. She was afraid to move too much, in case it returned.

Slowly, she raised her head until it was pressed against the rock. When that didn’t set off any new spasms she flexed her back slightly. Other than an odd looseness in her bones, there was nothing left of the agony she’d just endured.

Feyre wiped the tears from her eyes with a shaking hand. Azriel sat across from her. Hate still burned in his eyes, but there was pity now too.

“Tell me why I had to go through that.  _ Now _ ,” she hissed.

He stared at her for a long time, “When the High Lord Leith first set out to capture Amren, he found Persephone instead. This was her prison.”

“She’s alive?”

Azriel nodded.

“How do you know?” Feyre had to be sure, for Amren’s sake.

“Because… she’s my mother.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_ “When the High Lord Leith first set out to capture Amren, he found Persephone instead. This was her prison.” _

_ “She’s alive? How do you know?” _

_ “Because… she’s my mother.” _

Azriel watched Feyre from where he sat. Cold, rough stone dug into his back even through the armor. His hands itched for a blade as the shadows screamed in his ears. The shadows in this prison had seen the absolute worst Prythian had to offer, and they ached to tell Persephone’s son everything. 

The voices of the dead begging to confess their sins.

He blocked them out as best he could, but it would never be enough to mute them entirely. He’d only been to the prison twice before, but each time the shadows grew bolder. Louder. For the sake of his sanity this would be the last time.

Of course, if her husband and family had come to rescue her… maybe they could destroy the room entirely.

“Persephone is your mother?” Feyre said at long last.

Azriel nodded. Despite the oaths she’d sworn, his stomach churned. If Feyre betrayed them-

“That’s what the others wouldn’t tell me?” 

It was said more to herself than to Azriel, but he shrugged, “Probably. Before they helped me rescue her I brought them all down here and made them swear the same oaths. Amren wasn’t part of our group then, and as an archangel she couldn’t be bound with the same magic. She obeys them in spirit though.”

“And all this time, you knew what Amren was? That she was called ‘Azrael’?” Feyre said.

“I was the only child my mother was allowed to name. She hoped it would lead me to my namesake.”

And it had. When Rhys first introduced Amren to the Inner Circle her eyes had narrowed at Azriel’s name. And when she saw what he could do- she’d cornered him and forced him to bring her to Persephone.

“Where is she? If we can get her to Hades-”

“No,” he growled, panic flairing. His siphons flashed and it took genuine effort for Azriel to reign his power in. He couldn’t look at Feyre, not while fear held him tight.

Soft hands closed around his own and Azriel jumped. Feyre was kneeling across from him, weak as she was. She was kind, but others had been too. In the end they all came for Persephone. He couldn’t trust anyone with his mother’s life. Not after everything she’d survived.

“Please, tell me what happened.”

He’d brought her down to the prison to do just that, but the words died in his throat. It was more than just protecting his mother. Azriel had always loved how Feyre looked at him- as an equal and a brother. But once she knew what he was, she would only ever see him as a monster.

“Azriel,” her voice was gentle. The same voice she’d used to reach him as he strangled Eris during the High Lord’s meeting little more than a year ago. He didn’t say anything, and still didn’t look at her. Feyre’s hands trembled, but she only tightened her grip on him as she said, “On my life- I swear to protect Persephone as I would any member of the Inner Circle. Even if that means going to war to keep her safe, I swear to you that I will be worthy of the trust you put in me.”

He broke free of her grip and held her forearms tight as Feyre buckled in pain. A new panic rose in his chest at her whimpers and the violent shudders that wracked her body. It wouldn’t hurt as much as the final oath he’d made her swear, but there would still be tremendous pain.

“Why?” he whispered once Feyre drew a long, shuddering breath.

She did her best to smile at him, “Because you needed to hear it.”

That was what made Azriel love her so much, and what made her the perfect mate for his best friend: Feyre was utterly selfless. 

The story of that mortal woman who walked Under the Mountain just to try and save a single male (even if he was the wrong one) warmed Azriel’s heart. Rhysand’s description of her challenging Amarantha and having the nerve- even on the verge of death- to shatter her control over Prythian earned her his respect. And when he sat across from her at their first meeting and beheld the raw strength of character that broken, emaciated female still had- he knew then that he would be proud to call her his sister.

Ever since that dinner in the House of Wind Feyre had proven herself time and again worthy of the secret he carried. The knot in his chest eased and Azriel managed a half smile.

It faded as he pulled Feyre over to sit against the wall beside him, offered her the last dregs of alcohol from the skein he’d brought, and began the story of Persephone.

“There is a lot I don’t know… a lot Rhys and Amren won’t tell me for my own sake…” Azriel was lost for a moment before he took a deep breath and continued, “My mother found Amren after they’d both been in Prythian for a century. When they came here they were on opposite ends of a conflict, but even Amren had realized the old feud was pointless here. My mother just asked Amren how she was doing, if she needed anything, and then disappeared off into the woods. She’d come back every year on the same day, then every six months, then every three.

“Amren says that was just her nature. Once she decided you were a friend that was it. She ignored every threat and attempt on her life and just wormed her way into your heart. Prythian was so young back then- she honestly believed she could find a way to bring fae and humans together. The humans hadn’t been enslaved yet, but it was obvious enough where things were headed and she was going to do everything in her power to stop it.”

He hesitated, and Feyre reached over to take Azriel’s hand once again. His eyes turned towards the cage at the far end of the room, “Amren wasn’t so well behaved. You’ve heard the stories- you know what a terror she was. My mother was practically living with Amren at one point to try and tame her before anyone tried to hunt her down… While Amren was out, the High Lord Leith came. He- he had-” Azriel couldn’t say it.

“Breathe,” Feyre squeezed his hand. She wasn’t going to push Azriel. The fact that he was so distraught- and that she’d never seen him like this- told her more than enough. Whatever happened, it was more horrible than she could imagine.

“He had a silver collar. For Amren. Forged by all of the High Lords together. As they crafted it, they would use water from the Cauldron to help cool the metal. They thought it could contain any power- even an archangel’s.”

Feyre had never seen a silver collar around Amren’s throat, so she had a good idea of where it ended up.

“Leith and the soldiers were terrified of Amren. The closed it around my mother’s throat without even realizing she wasn’t who they were looking for. When Amren came back and found her home destroyed and my mother gone she raised two cities looking for her. The High Lord found another way to trap her- he sent her to the Prison.

“My mother was brought here. To a cell meant for Amren. Leith intended to keep her here, contained by the wards and that collar. Amren forced his hand, and he blamed my mother for that.”

Azriel was shaking, “He left her down here for years with barely enough food or water to keep a human alive. When he realized she wasn’t aging- that she  _ wasn’t _ human-” he didn’t speak again for a long, long time. Feyre held her spymaster’s hand as tears slipped down his cheeks, until he managed to say, “Leith tortured her, but she wouldn’t tell him what she was. Her powers were locked up in that collar and he didn’t want to take the risk of removing it. His advisors- they said-” he could only manage a whisper, “-children wouldn’t be so inclined to keep secrets.”

He could barely say the words, but he didn’t need to. Feyre’s blood was frozen in her veins as she stared at the empty cell- at the manacles positioned to utterly immobilize the woman it once contained.

Azriel had said he was the first child Persephone was allowed to name.

The first of how many?

“They started with just the one. Dragged her from my mother’s arms almost as soon as she was born. Then Leith waited. By her tenth birthday they realized she could hear the thoughts of those around her. She was a powerful weapon- and so they sent another of the High Lord’s minions down here, and within a year they had another.”

“How many?” Feyre whispered, not wanting to know the answer.

“Rhys won’t tell me,” Azriel said. “There are records of each and every birth, but he keeps them in a vault that only a High Lord can enter. Hundreds at least. Probably thousands. Even after Leith died the next High Lord… more than a dozen High Lords of Night are guilty of the same crimes as Leith.” Feyre thought she was going to be sick, “At first there were only mind-readers, but her eighth was the first Shadowsinger. As far as we’ve been able to tell, before then there were no shadowsingers or daemati in Prythian.”

The abilities were different enough that few realized there was a relationship between them: Daemati read the souls of the living whereas shadowsingers heard the whispers of the dead. Azriel’s mother would never tell another living soul what power she possessed, and out of respect for her wishes neither did Amren. 

When Azriel had read the destroyed dining room in the Palace of Nightmares he’d tasted Hades’ magic lingering in the space. Azriel thought they were attacked by a powerful shadowsinger.

He took a deep breath and continued, “Leith didn’t tell the other High Lords he’d failed to properly contain Amren. They never knew where the children were coming from, just that Night had an unending supply of warriors and spymasters with power that almost rivaled their own. Even the odd child with neither power sometimes passed it on to their own offspring. They were prized in Prythian and on the Continent as husbands and wives to the elite. By now every major House here, on the Continent, and even in Hybern contains at least a few drops of my mother’s blood.”

Feyre shook her head in disgust, “No one tried to find out where the children came from? No one tried to help her?”

“Not for a long time,” Azriel rolled his shoulders to ease some of the tension and nodded towards that horrible cell- the place where his mother suffered for so long. “Tell me what you see.”

“The cell wasn’t destroyed.” She couldn’t make herself look at the manacles. Not knowing what they’d been used for, “She couldn’t escape with the stairs retracted- so she was let go?”

“The High Lord Becan decided to- to bring my mother’s power into his own family line. His wife had given him only daughters, no one who would inherit his power when he died. Becan’s cousin Eoghann was the presumed heir of Night and openly conspired against the High Lord. As long as it takes High Fae to reproduce, he knew he needed an heir quickly. She had a male the third time, High Lord Gildas.”

A hint of pride crept into Azriel’s eyes as he told the story of his ancient half-brother, “Gildas was Daemati, one of the most powerful my mother ever produced. He kept his gifts secret, and when Becan decided he was going to try for a second male, Gildas took my mother’s location from his father’s mind and destroyed him.

“He was only eleven years old when he came into his power, but Gildas killed every guard in the Hewn City and took our mother to Velaris. At the time there was a small human population. Rhys found a journal Gildas kept- Amren had escaped from the Prison by then and Gildas was going to hide our mother among the humans until he could find Amren and ask for her help. He didn’t know about the history between them yet- or that Amren was looking for her.”

Feyre read the pain on Azriel’s face clearly enough, “He never got the chance, did he?”

“Becan’s wife always hated Gildas. She allied herself with a few lords within the Hewn City, Eoghann included. They ambushed and killed the boy within a week of Becan’s death. Eoghann- Rhysand’s grandfather- became High Lord of Night.”

“My mother ran from Velaris as soon as Gildas left. She didn’t trust him. After everything she’d gone through- they had her in that cell for  _ seven thousand years, _ Feyre. The moment she was free she hid.”

“She fled to the Illyrian Steppes?”

Azriel nodded, “She lived in a mountain cave for a few centuries. She didn’t know that the High Lords had turned her into a myth. You know the old fae prayer about the Mother? Every Court uses it, but they cut out the rest of her title- the Night Mother. Matriarch of Prythian. With whatever magic she possesses contained, once she was found she was easily captured by the Illyrians. They made her a camp slave… but just like before, within twenty years they realized she wasn’t human.”

Feyre’s stomach dropped.

“They suspected they had the Night Mother, but to be sure- … Shortly after my mother gave birth the Camp was destroyed in a territory dispute. No one knew if the infant survived or not, and my mother was taken as a spoil of war by the Lord of the other camp.”

He took another long breath, “She only had two Illyrian children. Her body wasn’t suited to the way Illyrians are born, the first one almost killed her. The Camp Lord who’d taken her- he was content to study her. He thought that if she were given time- then maybe she would just tell him what she was. Maybe she was worth more than the children… but eventually he betrayed her too. Sold her to another Camp Lord in exchange for some land.”

Azriel shuddered, and Feyre knew the story was nearing its end,“The Camp Lord was your-”

“The male who  _ caused _ me,” Azriel snapped before Feyre could say the word ‘father’.

That was it. The root of Azriel’s shame. He was a part of his mother’s torture in their world. Something she never would have chosen, never could have wanted. Azriel didn’t need the shadows of the prison to tell him how horribly his mother had suffered- he was proof enough of it. His mother loved him, but he couldn’t let go of the shame.

He and Gildas were the children who saved her, but if the world was anything but cruel neither would have been born in the first place.

Azriel waited for Feyre to look at him with that disgust and horror he felt every time he looked in the mirror, but she put a hand on his shoulder instead, “You were her last?” He nodded. “Rhys said your mother and his became friends?”

Tears lined his eyes, “She didn’t know who my mother was, but she went to the Camp I was born in and made the Lord hand her over or face her husband’s wrath. A Suriel told her what my mother was and to take her to the Weaver until a new High Lord sat upon the throne. I don’t know what their history was, but Stryga knew my mother and marked Rhysand’s as a friend of the gods Under the Mountain for saving her. Rhys’ mother convinced her mate to decimate my sire’s camp, coincidentally killing anyone in it who knew who my mother was. As for me- she convinced the High Lord I must just be a distant descendant of the original children.”

Feyre wished more than ever that she could have met Rhysand’s mother… but she also knew there was a piece Azriel was holding back, “The first Illyrian child… was it-”

“I told Rhys it wasn’t his mother, but all the signs are there. He’s so much stronger than even his father was at full power- and he’s the first true Daemati in his bloodline. Before him some of the High Lords could get a vague idea of what someone was thinking but Rhys-,” Azriel shook his head. “His mother had no sign of the Daemati or Shadowsinger abilities, but… not all of my mother’s children did.”

If it was true- if Rhysand’s mother was Persephone’s first Illyrian child-

“He’s your nephew?” It was so absurd Feyre had to bite down the temptation to laugh.

“Maybe,” Azriel nodded. “I hope so. It would mean that her last three children saved her in the end.”

“When did she leave Stryga?” Feyre asked after a moment, “I didn’t see any sign of another person living in the Weaver’s cottage.”

“Rhys had a feeling Hybern wouldn’t lick his wounds for long after the War. If there was going to be more bloodshed, I wanted my mother somewhere safe… So Rhys, Cassian, and I built her a small house and warded it more heavily than the walls of Velaris. When I told her she had to come back to Night-” fresh tears slid down his cheeks and Azriel quickly wiped them away. “My mother cried when my hands were burned, but telling her she had to move back was the first time  _ I _ made her cry. Amren sat with her for a few days and convinced her it was for the best. That was five hundred years ago.”

“And the wards held? Amarantha’s creatures didn’t find her?”

A quiet relief pushed back the pain in Azriel’s dark eyes, “Even Rhys can’t get within ten miles of my mother’s house. She knew something was wrong when I stopped checking on her, but she didn’t know to be afraid.”

Silence fell between the two for a time. Azriel gave Feyre as long as she needed to process everything he’d told her. Somehow it was easier repeating his mother’s story to the High Lady. Feyre was easy to talk to, with a temperament more mild and agreeable than some of the others in the Inner Circle.

Or maybe it was because… this was the end. 

Hades came for his wife with an army of her family and friends. If his mother returned to her world she would be safe and free of the horrors she’d endured. But- but would he do when she left?

He couldn’t go with her, he was needed in Prythian.

He couldn’t let her go alone, she needed him. 

If he handed her over to strangers Azriel knew he’d spend the rest of his life worried for his mother’s safety and health. 

If he went with her he would be equally worried for the safety and health of his Prythian family.

Azriel was happy that Persephone’s hell was ending- but he was also terrified of what would come next.

An arm draped itself across his shoulders. He jumped, but didn’t push Feyre away. As much as he hated showing weakness in front of others, he leaned into her half-hug and let her offer silent comfort. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Feyre said at long last.

“I didn’t want to,” Azriel replied honestly, “but I’m glad I did.”

“What’s next? We’ll all support you, no matter what you decide to do.”

He took a long, deep breath, “I’m not just going to throw my mother in a room with these visitors, nor am I going to let them near her home. It’s the only thing she’s had in millennia that is hers and hers alone… and the only thing she has that was given in love.”

Azriel knew Feyre could see his thoughts plainly enough on his face- that he counted  _ himself _ as something not given to Persephone, but demanded of her by a selfish, evil male.

“Tonight I’m going to ask Rhys to move everyone to Vele Luk.”

“The port?”

“Good job,” Azriel nodded. Feyre was learning about the geography of her Court, and Vele Luk was Night’s richest city. It housed Night’s navy, and most trade passed through the ports at some point or another. “My mother hasn’t seen the ocean in more than seven thousand years. I think it might calm her. Your palace there is opulent to say the least, but I won’t let Hades step foot in Velaris, and I’ll die before I bring my mother within a thousand miles of this damned city.”

Feyre nodded, “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

He was hoping she’d say that, “Come with me to get her.”

“What?”

“You’re the first High Lady in history- and you were born a human.” Az let himself laugh, “I regret telling her the tale of Feyre Cursebreaker though- I think she’s made me repeat it a hundred times. She finds hope in your story, and she’s going to need as much of it as possible. I think meeting you separately and in a controlled environment will help.”

“Az, I’ll do it I just- are you  _ sure _ ?”

“I am. She’ll have to give consent for you to enter the borders of her land, but I really think it will be best if you greet her ahead of us flying to Vele Luk.”

Feyre took a deep breath to settle her newly blossoming nerves, “Okay. If you think that’s what’s best for Pesephone, it’s what I’ll do.” He nodded and they fell into silence once more. After a few minutes Feyre judged him with an elbow, “Do you want to go get a drink and practice what you’re going to say to your mother?”

“Desperately,” Azriel stood a little too quickly. Feyre made it as easy as possible for him to share the story, but he never felt right about telling others. Each fae who knew was a threat to his mother’s security… and yet he would trust each and every one of them with his life. Now it was time to not only test that trust, but maybe to say goodbye.

As Azriel helped Feyre to her feet and unfurled his wings in the now-empty staircase, he still wasn’t entirely sure who would be saying farewell at the end of it all.

His mother to him.

Or Azriel to the Inner Circle.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Tamlin felt her enter the grounds of his estate and found a smile tugging at his lips.

He was cleaning the debris from what was once Feyre’s room. After she destroyed his Court- and again once the battle with Hybern was finished- he had taken out his anger on every piece of furniture, clothing, and decoration in the space. Even the windows were blown out- both in Feyre’s room and Lucien’s across the hall. 

For a year he was content to leave that wing of the house to rot. Tamlin was trying to pull his life back together, but cleaning out the space felt too much like forgiving her. Forgiving both of them.

Then Eirene stepped into his life and everything changed.

She came as part of a retinue of strangers from a distant land. Goddesses, if Tamlin’s guess was right. Their leader was a woman named Demeter whose powers rivaled even his own. 

Initially he was untrusting of the females. They could be spies for the Mortal Queens or an enemy of some other design entirely… but Demeter merely asked for permission to browse the libraries of his Court, and in return she sent her handmaids throughout Spring to help improve the year’s harvest. 

Eirene was just one of two-dozen in Demeter’s camp, but she’d caught Tamlin’s eye in an instant. Everything about her radiated peace and light. She was appointed as a sort of emissary between Demeter and Tamlin. 

Within a fortnight he was wholly under her spell.

Warm auburn curls fell delicately to her shoulders and resisted her every attempt to bind them back. Her skin was as pale as cream in defiance of the sun’s rays and whenever she touched Tamlin he was hypnotized by the sight of her white fingers against his own golden tan.

She was everything he’d ever dreamed of in a female and more. Innocent, kind, soft-spoken, calm, bright- Eirene was the very soul of his Court personified.

Everything he wasn’t… and everything he’d always wished to be.

So when he finally threw open the locked doors of Feyre’s old room it wasn’t because he’d forgiven her for what she’d done to his Court. It was because Feyre Archeron had no power over his heart anymore. In the blistered ruins she’d left behind something new was growing at last.

“High Lord Tamlin?”

He walked over to the windowsill with a wolfish grin on his face and leaned out, “I’m sorry, who are you looking for?”

Eirene stepped around the front corner of the manor and his heart skipped a beat. Her dress was the gray-blue of a summer storm and bound with a golden rope that wound around her toso. The strange fashion of her homeland. She shimmered with a golden light that made his eyes burn to even look on her- a manifestation of her power. There could be no doubt that Eirene was a goddess well and true.

A goddess who looked… lesser somehow.

“ _ Tamlin _ ,” she corrected herself with a forced smile, “am I interrupting your work?”

“No I- I’ll be right down,” he dropped his playful grin and hurried to set his broom against the wall. Eirene was always so bright and full of life- he’d seen her hide a smile more times than he could count, but she never had to force one before.

The corridor seemed too long, and something dark nipped at Tamlin’s senses. He sent a wave of his power through the estate grounds. When the echo of his might came back it was with whispers of a gathering presence.

Eirene met him at the base of the stairs and quickly dragged Tamlin towards the kitchens, “Can you affect the weather in this Court?”

“I can.”

“Then please summon the rain. A simple spring thunderstorm will do, as if you were trying to drown out curious ears.”

“Heavy on the thunder then,” Tamlin paused mid-step and sealed the estate buildings from both moisture and unexpected visitors. When Eirene pulled him forward again their footsteps were punctuated by a low, steady rumbling that echoed across the land.

She didn’t speak again until they reached the root cellar beneath an old and long-abandoned corner of the kitchens, “We should be safe here.”

“Who is following you?” Tamlin put a shield around the room, just to be safe.

“Maybe no one, maybe the nymphs Demeter placed around your home.”

He stared at Eirene for a long moment, then swore viciously. How many times did he have to fall into the same trap? How many of the women or females or goddesses he welcomed into his home would turn out to be spies for some force or another? Tamlin turned his back before she could explain how exactly he’d been an idiot this time.

“Tamlin, please listen to me,” Eirene grabbed his hand. When he still didn’t move, she dared to reach up and place a hand on his cheek, “It isn’t what you think- or at least it wasn’t.”

“What the hell does that mean?” his growl was more beast than fae.

“Nymphs are nature spirits. Demeter put them in place after our first meeting to help the gardens of the estate grow. They were a gift to mark her gratitude.”

“Not one she felt I should know about though, right?” he spat.

Eirene did not release his cheek, lest he turn away more, “They were supposed to help bring the plants back under control. A quiet blessing from a major goddess, that is all… but in times of war they become her spies.”

Tamlin pushed aside the hand on his cheek and twisted free of the one on his arm, “If your kind think they can invade Spring-”

“Tamlin,  _ stop _ . Let me explain- and give me some credit for warning you,” Eirene was gentle, but she held her ground when pushed.

He glared at her with over five centuries worth of contempt and rage.

She stared back with patience honed over millennia.

“Fine,” he growled at long last. “Say whatever it is you came to say, then get out and never come back.”

“I hope you won’t mean that when I’m done,” Eirene said. She turned from Tamlin for a moment, “Persephone is dead. We received word from our leader a few hours ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” there was very little sympathy in his tone.

She didn’t look sad- not as she chewed her lip and faced him once more. “Persephone and I were like sisters. I was there when she found the door to Hades’ realm and I was the one who met her every time she came back. When my kind was rounded up, I was among the few who managed to escape. I knew she wasn’t captured, and no matter how long or how hard I searched, I couldn’t find her. I accepted her loss a long time ago.”

“Apparently not, if you came here looking for her with the others.”

Eirene sighed and ignored him, “The others have reason to believe she was killed by the archangel Azrael in the territory of Night fifteen thousand years ago… but for us it has only been a few millennia since we were separated.”

“Azriel?” In spite of his temper Tamlin frowned, “The Spymaster?”

“I don’t know anything about a spymaster, but they mentioned Azrael has chosen to exist in your world as a female. Small, marked by silver eyes?”

“Amren?”

“Whatever name Azrael goes by now, she is third in command of Night. Hades wants her to answer for Persephone’s death but- he has also summoned our people to gather back in the north. If the High Lady of Night won’t hand over Azrael, he means to take her by force.”

Goosebumps rose on Tamlin’s arms, “How many of you are there?” He knew of only a couple dozen.

“Nearly one thousand, spread out across Prythian and the continent beyond. More than enough to level Night in a single day.”

“Feyre Archeron won’t hand over a member of her Court. Not for any reason,” he whispered. “There are innocent people in Night-”

“I know, Tamlin- I am a goddess of peace, I don’t want a war and I know Persephone wouldn’t either. The gods are sworn to follow Hades’ leadership but I can’t just stand by and let him do this in my friends’ name.”

Eirene searched his face for any hint of what Tamlin might be thinking. Her blood screamed against the coming slaughter as every instinct told her this was  _ wrong _ . 

“What do you want me to do?” he said at long last.

“Declare blood-rights to the High Lady’s head,” she said quickly. “There must be some old grievance you can claim. My people will respond to that- they have to. Hades means to make his first move at a meeting with the High Lady and her council day after tomorrow, but if you come forward- and if they survive his strike- he can’t attack with our full might until the armies of Spring have marched north. It buys us time- it buys  _ them _ time.”

“Time to do what?”

“I don’t know,” a tear slipped down Eirene’s cheek. “Peace tends to be little more than delaying the next battle.”

“Isn’t that a little nihilistic for a goddess of peace?”

“Aren’t you a bit gloomy for a Lord of Spring?” Slowly, she reached out and took Tamlin’s hand once more. He didn’t pull away this time, “I don’t have a plan, not one that will save those people… but the destruction of an entire kingdom cannot be Persephone’s legacy… I can’t watch another Troy fall.”

He considered his answer for a long time, even though Tamlin knew in his heart what it would be, “Feyre… she was the female who broke my people’s faith in me. She’s why this Court is splintered into pieces. Is that enough of a grievance to declare a blood-feud?”

“It is,” hope flickered in Eirene’s blue eyes.

Tamlin sighed, “The last time I played along with an enemy I waited too long to reveal myself. Most of the other High Lords still believe that I was working against them from the start. I can’t go through that again and to be honest I think they’ll just kill me and take their chances with the next High Lord.”

“It’s too dangerous to tell anyone else about our plan. Even I don’t know where all of our spies are embedded,” Eirene said.

He wanted to tell Feyre and Rhysand- if only so that they couldn’t put the blame on him later. But if their reactions were to be believed by the gods of another world…

“There’s one person we can tell. Someone no High Lord has ever been able to put a spy on. I can’t promise they won’t try to kill me, but they’ll at least hear us out first.”

Eirene could see there was no arguing with Tamlin. He needed one of his own kind to know he was a good male, “The Spymaster you mentioned before? Azriel?”

“No,” Tamlin rolled his shoulders and tried to push the beast back a little further, “Morrigan.”

\---

* * *

 

\---

Feyre was squeezing Rhys’ hand hard enough to bruise, but he didn’t mind. She needed whatever strength he could spare as they walked along the banks of the Tajana river.

They were somewhere on the border of the Illyrian Steppes. Mountains rose far in the distance to the south and west, and to the east thick forests stretched for hundreds of miles until land gave way to ocean. 

Azriel told her to keep walking until she found a clearing full of small white flowers. Rhysand had permission to bring his mate to the borders of Persephone’s lands, but he couldn’t stay once Azriel came for her.

She wanted to tell Rhys how nervous she was, but doing so would be in violation of the oaths she’d sworn to keep Persephone secret. Even with Azriel beside her, she hadn’t been able to tell him that she knew the secret. Only one-on-one (or with special permission), could Feyre speak freely.

“I love you,” she forced her hand to unclench from Rhysand’s and leaned against his side.

“I love you too,” he kissed her forehead. “I think you’ll like Vele Luk. We still have to be on our best Court of Nightmares behavior, but the palace there is easily the most beautiful in all of Night.”

“Better than the House of Wind will be?” Renovations were finally underway in Velaris.

Rhysand laughed, “I took our architect on a tour of the Vele Luk palace. We won’t have all the filigree and mosaics that Vele Luk has, but I think I did a good job of guessing what features you’d want replicated.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Feyre smiled in spite of her nerves. 

There was a chance they’d get to the meeting place and Azriel would tell her that Persephone didn’t want Feyre in her lands. Honestly, that might be easier to handle than the meeting itself. Amren was unbound by Azriel’s oaths, and once Mor brought her back from Velaris, she’d spent the night sitting with Feyre and Rhysand, explaining exactly how to approach the female.

No sudden movements. No bulky clothes that could hide weapons (not that Feyre was armed). All gestures should be made in a fluid, half-paced motion. Do not approach her directly. Do not approach her indirectly either. Go nowhere and touch nothing unless given specific permission. Do not look at her the wrong way. Do not look around in general. Don’t stare at her. Don’t stay too close to Azriel. Don’t be too far from Azriel. Don’t stand between Persephone and any sort of exit. Don’t breathe too slowly. Don’t breathe too quickly.

And finally, the most important rule: Don’t look nervous… but also don’t seem too relaxed.

Feyre’s head was still spinning with the mess of contradictions Amren unloaded on her. Azriel was the one who thought this was a good idea, she had to trust that he would help her avoid any mistakes.

A whiff of something stale and sharp washed over her from somewhere upstream. It was only a hint on the breeze, but she knew the smell well enough: wild garlic. A plant that just so happened to be marked by small white flowers, exactly what Az told her to look for.

The Tajana river had been wide-set and fast for most of their journey, but as Rhys helped Feyre over small brooks and creeks that fed into it, what remained dwindled. They were nearing the source of the river, and already it was just ten feet wide.

“We’ll be there soon enough, how about we take a break?” Rhys slowed to a stop. “The rivers in this part of Night are mostly ice-melt from the Illyrian Mountains, the rest of them bubble up from underground springs. It’s safe to drink if you’d like.” After Azriel came to lead Feyre into the woods she would still have another two hour hike ahead of her.

She nodded, only half listening. She was the one who requested the hours-long walk upstream to help ease her nerves while Azriel spoke with his mother. Now Feyre was tired and thirsty- but even more anxious than before. 

Rhys pulled his mate down to sit on the soft green grass of the riverbank. Oak trees provided shade, and the soft trill of forest birds wound through the quiet splash of water as it flowed downstream. It would have been idyllic… but all Feyre could think of was a young Rhysand walking along the Tajana in search of a home for that poor, lost goddess.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Rhys took Feyre’s hand in his. “Az gave me permission before he left.”

“I don’t think I can handle any more,” Feyre whispered.

Rhys kissed her on the forehead, “I’m sorry… but you should know. Actually, you should have known a year ago when we started trying for children... Put simply, when Fae reproduce the female is implanted with a bit of her partner’s genetic code. It is what allowed my father and mother to create me and what helps any fae of two different sub-species produce offspring.”

He swallowed before continuing, “Illyrian children are birthed in a sort of sub-womb, like a sack. It helps prevent the wings from… catching. The talons are relatively soft the first year or two of our lives, but they’re still dangerous. You won’t have anything to worry about because my genetic material will help your body make the necessary alterations to facilitate the birth if our child inherits my wings.”

Feyre had a sudden mental image of delivering an egg in need of hatching and shivered.

“Persephone isn’t fae though,” Rhys said quietly. “She had no protection from the wings. Her two Illyrian children nearly killed her. After the first, when she was captured by the second Camp Lord, a healer was brought to fix the damage. There was no such treatment after Azriel’s birth. She was left with extremely limited use of her legs.”

“Madja?” It was all Feyre could say as she winced in sympathy. Azriel gave Rhys permission to share the warning, but her noose remained in place.

Rhysand understood what she was trying to say, “We tried, but she wouldn’t consent to the treatment and we weren’t about to force it on her.”

“What does it mean?” Again, the noose threatened to close her throat.

A deep voice answered from behind them, “It means watch where you step once we enter her lands, and it’s kind of difficult to get into the house.”

Feyre looked over her shoulder as Azriel walked towards them. His face was ash-pale and he’d run his hand through his hair so much that she could see the trail his fingers left. He wasn’t as agitated as he’d been when he took her into the old cell, but rather… tired.

Whatever she might have  _ wanted _ to say to Rhys or Azriel, Feyre merely turned back to her husband, kissed him, and whispered, “I’ll see you later.”

“See you later,” Rhys promised. He stood and helped Feyre to her feet. To Azriel he said, “We only just stopped to rest, so don’t push her too hard. You turn into a bit of a taskmaster when you’re agitated.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll walk slowly,” Azriel said.

“Bye,” Rhys squeezed Feyre’s hand again, unwilling to send her off with Az just yet. She knew she looked as miserable as she felt. So many things had gone wrong for Persephone in Night, Feyre wasn’t sure it was possible for her to even face the goddess.

With only a grimace to let her know that Rhys felt the same, he vanished in an explosion of black mist. Feyre was alone in the woods with Azriel. As soon as the mist cleared, the noose around her throat vanished.

“Come on, the river is shallow near the clearing Rhys was taking you to, we can cross there,” Azriel said. He set off immediately- though as promised he was moving a bit slower than normal.

She followed in silence as they walked along the riverbank and the smell of wild garlic filled the air. Azriel glanced back at Feyre a couple times before saying, “Four hundred years ago, on a visit to the Hewn City, Mor found a scrawny little puppy digging through a trash pile. She couldn’t just leave it to starve all on its own, but she wasn’t interested in keeping a pet. I offered to take it back to Velaris so one of the animal shelters there could find a family for the little female. I decided to visit my mother on the way and-”

Azriel grinned broadly, “I don’t know who fell in love first- that puppy with my mother, or she with it. They were completely inseparable, and within five minutes I knew I’d have to get to the pet store to pick up a bed and some toys. The dog never got much bigger than my foot- it was one of those dainty little breeds noble ladies carry around. The wolves in this forest are huge- and by now I think at least half of them are descended from that yappy little furball. My mother still leaves out food for them in the wintertime, and I’ve caught her playing with wolf pups more than once.”

Feyre found herself smiling and Azriel elbowed her gently, “I just thought you might like to hear one of the good stories about my mother.”

“Thank you… Will it be alright if we give her some gifts too?”

Azriel’s smile faded, “I suppose. I don’t know what she’ll want to take with her when-” he cleared his throat, “but... lately she likes sea glass from Summer.”

“What were you going to say? When she leaves? Or when you both leave?” Feyre’s blood went cold. She hadn’t even considered that Azriel might be thinking of following her back to her own world.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Azriel muttered. 

She elbowed him the way he had before his little story, “I just hope you know that you are family and we all love you… Uncle Azriel.”

He snorted, “Never call me that again… niece.”

It would be the last joke Azriel told before the end-

-and the last time Feyre laughed before Hades ripped out her soul.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Feyre followed Azriel through the forest for what felt like an eternity.

Their path was well marked, the trail didn’t appear to twist or turn, and yet it all just looked the same.

Towering oaks lined the way with wild vines to fill in the gaps. She couldn’t have strayed from the path even if she wanted to. The sheer uniformity of their path mixed with the gloom of dense foliage made Feyre’s head swim and her eyes cross. She stumbled as the world twisted.

“None of it is real,” Azriel put a hand on Feyre’s back and the path stopped moving beneath her feet. “We’re getting close to the cottage, the wards are pushing back. Just keep moving and everything will settle again.”

Feyre’s head was swimming. She couldn’t make her eyes focus on the trail, so she closed them tight and let Azriel push her forward gently. Nausea made her limbs shake and she threw every bit of her consciousness into the sound of their footsteps. 

The rhythmic  _ crunch _ of dirt and leaves beneath boots distorted. It echoed from every angle and grew to a tremendous din.

Azriel’s hand tightened on the back of Feyre’s shirt and he half-dragged her forward suddenly. The noises were too loud, her head felt like it was going to explode. She needed to get away, to turn back and flee this damned place as quickly as possible. Pressure slammed into her from behind, throwing the High Lady of Night forward until she collided with something cold, hard, and flat.

The sound faded.

Her stomach settled.

The world stopped spinning.

“Sorry, I didn’t think the wards would put up that much of a fight since I was with you,” Azriel said as he hurried to pull Feyre to her feet. She groaned, but stomped down her impulse to snap back, in case Persephone was already watching.

A paved stone path (what she’d fallen on) began abruptly as the dark forest trail gave way to a large clearing. Stone-walled gardens flanked the walkway- one filled with herbs in neat rows, the other vegetables. They too had paving of a sort- raised wooden platforms capped in tile that went right up to the base of the plants.

When Azriel nudged Feyre forward, she noticed just how low to the ground everything was- the latches on the gates were about as high as her kneecap. A squat shed rested against the side of the herb gardens wall- the door was normal height, but again the handle sat only a couple feet off the ground. At the end of the path were two more regular-sized buildings made from the dark oak of the forest: another shed, and Persephone’s cottage.

It couldn’t have been much larger than the hovel the Archerons inhabited when she was taken to Prythian- but that was as far as the similarities went. The stone walls were painted white, with chains of sea glass draped over from the slate roof to throw splashes of color across the stone. Thigh-high windows were closed off by shutters painted in blues, greens, purples, and pinks. The door to the cottage was cut in half with two separate handles- one again at normal height, the other low to the ground.

Azriel mentioned something happened to his mother when she delivered her Illyrian children. Feyre had an awful idea of what that might be.

“Don’t be nervous,” Azriel said as he bent down to grasp both door handles at once. She didn’t reply, she wasn’t sure he was talking to her. He opened the door only a little and Feyre heard a sudden scraping sound from within, “It’s alright. It’s just me.”

His wings fell a few seconds later. He turned to Feyre, “Let me go in first. When I tell you it’s alright, you can enter.”

“Of course,” she did as Amren advised and replied in a low, soothing voice.

Feyre tried not to listen as Azriel entered the cottage and pulled the door mostly closed behind him. She only heard his voice, too low to make out any words. Her heart thundered in her chest while Azriel comforted his mother and braced her for their meeting. In five hundred years Persephone hadn’t seen anyone beyond Azriel. 

“Feyre? You can come in now,” Azriel called.

She took a deep breath and slowly opened the door.

The inside of the cottage was more roomy than Feyre would have guessed. Whereas there were four people crushed into the Archeron hovel, this home seemed perfectly suited to one. 

A weaver’s loom was pushed up against the far wall beside a neat pile of fabric. Shin-high counters marked the kitchen area with an equally low table in the dining room surrounded by brightly colored cushions. There was a bookshelf, a candle-making station, and even a few simple crafts around the room- remnants of past hobbies Persephone had taken up. On one table was a ball of string and a pile of sea glass chips beside a cross-shaped tool meant to bore holes through the glass.

Azriel was sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room. Doors for a privy and a bedroom were closed on either side. His wings were stretched out against the wall and as Feyre stepped towards him she noticed the fabric of his shirt shift suddenly tighter.

“Where should I sit?” Feyre asked quietly. She could hear the woman hidden behind him breathing hard.

When he motioned towards a patch of floor near the fireplace a small, pale hand shot out and tugged his arm back into place, hiding her as much as possible.

“Mother? This is Feyre Archeron, the High Lady of Night,” Azriel half-turned his head towards the woman cowering behind him as Feyre took her seat.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. Azriel was one of my very first true friends in Prythian, your son is a good male,” she bowed her head, even though Persephone couldn’t see her.

Amren had warned that there would be long periods of silence. Feyre waited patiently as Azriel’s shirt shifted again- Persephone adjusting her grip. After a moment she could see dark brown hair poking over his shoulder. A few minutes later there was a forehead. Azriel held his breath as that white hand reached over his wing and gently pulled it down, revealing half of a face.

Feyre offered her warmest smile at the large brown-gold eyes that watched her. She put a hand over her heart and bowed again. When Feyre straightened her back Persephone had ducked down again- but slowly she returned and dared to show her full face.

When they first met, Feyre noted Azriel’s classic beauty, now she knew that he’d inherited every last bit of it from his mother. The same high cheekbones, sharp brow, and elegant nose. The same narrow jaw and full lips. Azriel may have been born with the rich, tanned skin of the Illyrians, but he was his mother’s son in every other sense.

She was a goddess, Feyre supposed it was only normal for her and her son to possess that otherworldly beauty.

“Feyre met the delegation that arrived from the mountain armies,” Azriel turned to speak to his mother. She didn’t take her frightened eyes off the High Lady. “She would know more details than I did.”

“There were two who called themselves Graecian,” Feyre said. “Hades and his nephew, Bellerophon. The other was kin of Amr- of Azrael. His name was Zahariel.”

No reaction.

“We don’t know who the others are in their group, but Rhysand will escort them to Vele Luk tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to meet them until you’re ready,” Azriel murmured quickly to his mother, “and I will be with you at all times.”

Feyre remembered her first days in Night after Mor rescued her from Tamlin’s prison. She’d chosen to hide upstairs rather than meet Azriel or Cassian. Even moving from the Palace of Nightmares to Velaris had been almost too much for her to face.

She remembered another part of Azriel’s horror story, “Lady Persephone? Your son told me that you know who I am? What I am?”

“She loves the story of Feyre Cursebreaker,” Azriel repeated what he’d told Feyre before as he watched his mother’s face. He was trying to help put her at ease, but she only looked more anxious.

“Did he tell you how I became fae?” 

“I did,” Azriel glanced back to her.

Feyre wanted Persephone to answer in some way, not necessarily Azriel. He shifted slightly on the floor and Feyre noticed her other hand was pressed against his shoulder, “He told you the High Lords each gave me a kernel of their magic to bring me back?”

On the half-hidden hand, a finger tapped and Azriel nodded, “That was one of her favorite parts.” He wasn’t answering over Persephone, he was answering for her. 

“My power is something made of all seven High Lords combined. I can’t be sure, but I think I could remove your collar.”

It was created by seven ancient High Lords using the might of the Cauldron itself. Something only seven more High Lords could remove. Persephone was as helpless as a normal human in Prythian. Removing the collar and unleashing her power would give back at least some of what was stolen from her for so long.

“No,” Azriel’s voice was hard after the tap on his shoulder. Persephone pushed herself back further into the corner and Feyre heard that strange scrape again. She wanted to reassure the goddess it would be removed without any conditions- Feyre was prepared to try and take it off that very minute, but Azriel made a low, quick gesture-  _ wait _ .

“Alright,” she said, “it is your decision.” Persephone remained cowering behind her son, and Feyre’s heart sank. She’d gone too far with her offer too soon. 

“You’re alright,” Azriel’s voice was so soft and so kind that it took Feyre a moment to realize he was speaking to her. “It’s just a lot to handle at once. Little steps,” he directed his last statement to Persephone and repeated, “little steps.”

He waited for her to meet his eyes and nod softly. Azriel slid to the side- keeping his wings stretched out the entire time. Persephone was no longer able to hide behind her son’s body, but she still had the cover of his wing.

Little steps.

Persephone held the top ridge of the wing, but she let him lower it far enough that Feyre could see the collar clamped around her throat.

Some part of her always knew it would be the same as the box that once contained the Book of Breathings.

The collar was comprised of thick, unpolished metal that wound its way around the lower half of Persephone’s neck. She’d expected it to be tight to the skin, but the High Lords who crafted it didn’t exactly have the measurements of the archangel. It was hardly loose, but wouldn’t impede breath or movement.

Instinct told Feyre that if she were to touch it she would feel that same awful, leeching pain as when she stole the book from Summer or on that terrible day when she repaired the Cauldron and nearly lost Rhysand.

Without realizing it, Feyre’s careful composure cracked at the memory. She forced the sadness from her eyes as quickly as possible, but the shift seemed to ease Persephone’s fear ever so slightly. Azriel’s wing lowered a little bit more.

“Mother?” He’d leaned to one side as she moved, but he was nearing the limits of how much his wing could bend at that angle. Persephone released him and while he moved back closer to her, he pulled his wings in at last.

She wore a simple yellow linen dress neatly tucked against her legs, but it was what was beneath her that broke Feyre’s heart. Leather straps crossed over her lap, holding her to a small wooden platform with sturdy wheels. Everything in her home and the clearing around was made for someone who never stood at their full height- now Feyre knew why. 

Azriel and Rhysand both said the Illyrian births nearly killed her. More than that- they’d left her crippled.

“She prefers this to one of the traditional wheeled chairs,” he rested a hand on his mother’s back. Feyre schooled her face into neutrality, but it was an effort to draw breath around the lump in her throat.

This was the legacy of those who built her Court.

No wonder Rhys joked so often about misting the lot of them.

Feyre was silent for too long. Persephone was clutching the hook on the top edge of Azriel’s wing as if it were a lifeline. “I will do whatever it takes to make sure this never happens in my Court again.” 

Persephone understood- or at least she seemed to. Her grip on Azriel’s wing eased.

“When would you like to go to Vele Luk?” Azriel asked Feyre. 

The point of the visit was to introduce them, but even the High Lady could see that his mother’s bravery was faltering. If they were really going to move her to Vele Luk that day, they couldn’t push her too far at a simple meeting.

“Whenever Lady Persephone is ready. And if you need me to fly ahead and make sure the others stay in their rooms, then that’s fine too,” they hadn’t exactly worked out the logistics of getting Persephone into the city. All Feyre knew was that they were to walk back out of the wards (another two hour hike) and then they would be flying.

He looked to his mother. Persephone’s eyes were brimming with tears. It broke his composure somewhat. He offered her a sad smile and didn’t bother hiding his own pain. This was the first step towards losing something he would never be able to replace. Either her, or the Inner Circle. For Persephone it was more- she was leaving the only safety she had known in eight thousand years.

“You go ahead,” Azriel’s voice broke. He cleared his throat and with more confidence said, “The wards won’t bother you as you return. We’ll meet you in the city.”

“Okay,” Feyre stood slowly and bowed her head to Persephone. The woman was just staring at Azriel’s wing, refusing to look at the female. Feyre backed away from the two slowly, only turning as she reached the door.

Azriel and his mother needed time to say goodbye, and there might not be an opportunity once she was overwhelmed by the relative chaos that was sure to be Vele Luk.

Feyre just hoped they could keep Hades away from Amren until Persephone was ready.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

For the first time in his existence, Hades felt nothing.

He stormed through the growing camp as if in a rage, greeted the regrouping gods with all the command and surety of a general, and yet his heart was gone.

His light was gone.

The gods had no real concept of loss- not really. They watched mortals mourn and many paused to remember their human offspring, but it was a hollow feeling. After all- they could always wander into the underworld to visit those who had passed. Many of the Olympians even arranged for favorites to serve them in their palaces after death. So no- they couldn’t truly comprehend what the word ‘loss’ meant.

As a god of the Underworld, Hades had even less of a concept of death. If he took notice of a mortal and they died- oh well, it would take less effort to visit them.

But no matter how hard he tried, Hades couldn’t feel the Prythian Underworld. He couldn’t find a death god to reach out to who might hold Persephone’s soul. The deity who controlled Prythian’s afterlife was neither bothered by the gods’ presence, nor willing to reach out.

If he couldn’t find Persephone’s soul, she was well and truly lost forever.

What did that even mean?

Who could explain death to the King of the dead?

So, Hades was numb as he walked through the Gods’ camp. He didn’t know how to be anything else. He couldn’t understand the raw ache that ripped through him when Azrael told it’s- told _her_ \- story. That feeling was so incredibly powerful, his loss so unfathomably great, that for a minute he thought he felt her in the room with them… smelled her in the darkness the High Lady and her advisor threw against his own power.

No one stood in his path as he made for the war-tent. Not Zeus, King-of-Kings, not his insufferable bitch of a mother-in-law Demeter, and not even Zahariel. At least the archangel realized its reasoning had fallen on deaf ears. It was sworn to follow Hades’ command, and it would do it regardless of its own alliances.

That damned obedience was what sent Persephone running to a new world in the first place.

Nymphs appeared out of nowhere to draw the curtains aside as Hades approached and that numbness in his soul began to stir into something painful. He was the last to arrive at the table, around which sat those he’d chosen to strike at Night if archangel Azrael was not handed over.

Aires nodded in greeting.

Two black-veiled Keres were close beside him. The third sister had disappeared while searching for Persephone a century before. They did this as much for her as for their Queen.

Melinoe, usually cold and unfeeling, reached out to squeeze her father’s hand. He could hardly bring himself to look at her- at those beautiful eyes she’d inherited from her mother.

Bel sat beside his lover Kydoimos, despite not being invited to this particular meeting. The latter was sharpening an assortment of throwing knives. He’d braided the black hair away from his face and secured it with a leather strap. There was no hiding that Kydoimos was prepared to fight. His deep olive skin was crossed with war-paint.

Hades only acknowledged his nephew enough to say, “Get out, Bellerophon.”

“He can come along,” Kydoimos said quietly. His tone was low, dangerous, and he paused in his work to stare Hades down, “He won’t get in the way.”

Bel was a good soldier, but he’d taken a liking to the heads of the Night Court. Hades didn’t think he’d appreciate what would happen if they refused to hand over Azrael… but pissing off Kydoimos wasn’t worth the headache.

“This arrived earlier- dropped from above,” Bel pulled a tube of paper from his tunic and un-tied the ribbon around it. A map of Night, its borders only vaguely sketched, with three marks across it and a compass drawn in one corner.

“What does it say?” One of the Keres hissed from beneath her veil. Aires and Melinoe inspected the strange flowing script beneath each of the marks.

“Your camp,” Hades translated, touching the first mark. “Palace of Nightmares,” he touched the second and frowned at the third script. “That doesn’t translate into our tongue, so it must be a name. Vele Luk, mid-morning.”

Melinoe sat back in her seat, “They want us to meet them in some other location.”

“So that we go in without knowing the lay of the land,” Aires picked up a blueprint Bel had drawn of the entryway to the Palace of Nightmares and tore it in half. He grinned savagely, “Good. It’s more fun this way.”

“We only attack if they refuse to hand Azrael over,” Hades said. “In honor of all that Persephone was, I will give them a chance.”

Bellerophon pursed his lips, but wisely said nothing.

“There are some among your numbers who oppose an all out attack,” a Keres whispered. Their voices still made Hades skin crawl, even though he’d known them all his life.

“Every single man and woman here swore on the River Styx to follow my leadership in this world. Egyptian, Mesopotamian, Celtic- every god is bound by their pledge, even if they are not Graecian. They can disagree all they want. Opposition is impossible.”

Kydoimos smiled to himself, seduced by the chaos in his veins, “If you truly believe that Hades, then you don’t understand the nature of gods.”

\---

\---

“Fine jewelry for the fine lady?”

“Silks from the Continent! Special price, just for you!”

“You buy, we dye special, today only!”

Mor ignored the shouts of sellers as she wandered through Day’s largest market. She was on a mission to find clothes and gifts for Azriel’s mother. Mor could appreciate better than most how hard it was to come back from evil. She wanted to make Persephone’s transition to Vele Luk as painless as possible.

She’d still been bedridden when the goddess was rescued from the Illyrian Steppes. While Rhysand’s mother went to make her deal with Stryga, Persephone was kept in the same hidden cottage as Mor. She remembered very little of her time there, but she did remember waking up in fear only to find Persephone sitting beside her. The goddess smoothed her hair and hummed a quiet, strange song as she slid back into unconsciousness.

The next time she awoke, Persephone was gone to the Weaver’s cottage.

She hadn’t seen her since.

Mor hummed the goddess’ song to herself as she browsed through the market. It made her feel… awake. Alive. That song was the shimmer of light that helped her find her way back from the brink of insanity after her father broke her. Ever since Persephone first hummed the song beside her, it was a balm to her very soul.

“I need a concoction of lime blossom and passionflower,” Mor called to a tea seller. “Enough for a week.”

“Passionflower is not recommended for long term treatment,” the herbalist replied, even as he grabbed a bowl and began to measure out raw ingredients from large buckets of dried plants. “Someone stressed?”

“Under a tremendous deal of strain,” Mor came closer so that she could smell his wares. The herbs were all superb quality. Good- she had a feeling Persephone wouldn’t be too keen on alcohol to ease her fear.

“May I-?” the squat old male waved to his wares. “No extra cost, of course.”

“By all means,” Mor let him grab sprigs of chamomile and even a few pods of vanilla bean to maximize the tea’s effectiveness while also crafting a pleasant flavor. He mixed them thoroughly in his bowl and then sat down at a low table to begin portioning the tea out into individual pouches.

“When the pouch turns blue, the tea has finished steeping,” the male called over his shoulder.

“Got it,” she continued to inspect ingredients as she waited, humming once more.

“You are a very difficult female to locate,” a female cloaked in white linen came to stand beside Mor. Her voice was soft and light, and though her hood included a lace veil to hide her face, it couldn’t conceal the scent wafting around her.

Mor snorted and continued to hum to herself. She picked up a peppermint leaf and felt the texture of it- so freshly dried that a skilled gardener might be able to coax it back to life.

“I would like to speak with you,” the female said after a moment. She took a step closer to Mor.

“I don’t really care what some Spring bitch has to say.”

The female gasped softly, “I beg your pard-”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Mor returned the leaf and straightened up to glare at someone over the female’s shoulder, far across the market. She turned halfway towards the herbalist, “I’ll be back to pick it up later.”

“As you wish,” the male slowed his pace without the pressure of a waiting customer.

Mor pushed past the female and made for the male who stood alone beside a hookah den. He was black-haired and olive-skinned, a perfect fit among the residents of Day, “You honestly don’t think a glamour will work on me.”

“I didn’t need it to work on you. Just anyone else who might be watching,” the male didn’t bother smiling as he waved Mor towards the door.

“Why would I want to go anywhere with you?”

His gaze darkened, “Feyre has forgiven me for-”

“This isn’t about Feyre. You slaughtered my aunt and cousin.”

Tamlin’s panicked glance to the female did not go unnoticed, “I didn’t take part in their deaths.”

“Fine- you _facilitated_ the slaughter of my aunt and cousin. Shall I saw some precious body part off you to keep as my trophy?”

Another pleading look to the veiled female. She didn’t hesitate, “I have no interest in your past. I will judge you only by the actions you display now.”

He breathed a soft sigh of relief. Mor rolled her eyes, “Then you’re just some dumb little-”

Tamlin growled, cutting off Mor’s insult. He closed his eyes and forced words through clenched fangs, “Please just give us ten minutes.”

“Make it worth my while,” Mor crossed her arms.

“Listen to him or we take our warning elsewhere and you can watch everyone you love die tomorrow.”

Mor glared at the female for a long time before finally stepping into the hookah bar. Just inside the door was a small entryway, closed off from the rest of the den by thick velvet curtains to contain the worst of the smoke. Behind the desk was a set of stairs.

Tamlin stepped around Mor and led her up the stairs two levels, then through endless curtains until they reached a private room with actual walls. The towering glass hookah sitting on the table was unlit, and Tamlin sent a blast of Spring-scented air throughout the space to clear out the stench of stale smoke. When he turned, the glamour fell away to reveal that oh-so-punchable face.

“Great, now I have to burn these clothes,” Mor glared at him with crossed arms.

“Just wash them before Rhys or Feyre scents you.”

“No,” she sighed, “you’ve ruined them… Now tell me how you found me.”

Tamlin smirked, “My spies are-”

“You asked Lucien who asked Rhys who asked Cassian,” Mor raised an eyebrow, daring him to deny it.

“It doesn’t matter how we found you, what matters is why,” the female threw back the hood of her cloak, revealing a young _woman_ with pale skin and curling auburn hair. She was beautiful- even if her taste in males was suspect.

Mor felt the power wafting off of her and studied the curve of her ear for a long time before slowly dropping the bratty act, “You’re one of the Graecians.”

“I am. My name is Eirene.”

“Are you a god, or another dead hero?”

Eirene lifted her chin, “I am the goddess of peace and the Horae of Spring.”

Mor laughed, “You were offended when you thought I called you a bitch, yet you proudly identify yourself a whore?”

Tamlin snarled. “ _Horae_ ,” Eirene huffed, “that means I am the embodiment of the concept of Springtime.”

A misty, doe-eyed look flashed across Tamlin’s face and Mor suppressed the urge to vomit. “Well Horae, what the hell do you want from me?”

“I’m the one who wants something,” Tamlin’s voice was still hard as he faced the golden fae. “The Greek army intends to slaughter all of Night. Whatever you think of me Morrigan, I will not let that happen. My issues with Rhysand and Feyre are numerous, but I don’t want to see them dead. I can’t stop the Graecians, but I can slow them down. To do that, I need to declare war on Feyre.”

“Well that should be easy for you. You fucked us all over well enough with Hybern,” Mor said.

He didn’t let her words bother him, “You are known throughout Prythian as the truth-keeper. You were the one who worked hardest to broker peace during the War five centuries ago. Both sides trusted you to speak honestly. I sided with Hybern partly to rescue Feyre-”

“You mean steal her from her mate so that you could keep her as a breeding slave.”

A ripple ran through him. Eirene put a hand on Tamlin’s arm and he managed to keep the beast at bay. When he spoke though, his mouth was filled with the fangs of a beast, “I thought what I was doing was right. And then Rhysand turned the High Lords against me.”

“My soul weeps.”

Eirene looked to Tamlin rather than Mor, “Wait- the advisor Rhysand? You are a High Lord, he is an advisor, why would the others take his word against yours?”

Mor nearly forgot the ruse Rhys put on during the meeting. She raised an eyebrow as Tamlin said, “Rhysand is High Lord of the Night Court. Feyre’s mate and husband.”

“She told Hades her husband died in the battle with this… Hybern.”

“He only died for like half an hour,” Mor shrugged, “the bastard is so damn dramatic.”

It was the worst half hour of her life. One she still had nightmares about.

Feyre’s screams echoed in her ears and Mor stepped away as Tamlin offered a more thorough explanation. She hummed that song to herself and pushed back the memory of Feyre’s horrible screams carrying across the battlefield. Hades would at least know before the next sunset that Persephone was alive. There would be no war… but the threat made the memory of Feyre’s agony that much worse.

A hand touched Mor’s arm and she jumped. She turned back to see Eirene standing there with a strange look on her face. Something like… cautious hope, “I thought I heard wrong in the market but… that song… where did you learn it?”

“It’s just an old song,” Mor felt the noose of Azriel’s oath appear around her neck as it sensed dangerous questions.

“Liar,” Eirene stared down Mor, “where did you hear that song?”

“I don’t know, probably from my mother when I was a babe. It’s just an old song.”

“Liar.”

“Look- Tamlin, just tell me what you want. I have better things to do today than explain nursery songs to some ‘Horae’,” Mor stepped around Eirene.

“Um- fine. Declaring war on Feyre and Rhysand will only delay the Graecian army. There are more than a thousand of them- spread throughout Prythian. They are regrouping, readying to sweep across your Court. I declare war, we find some way to save the people of Night, and when this whole thing is over you will tell everyone that _we_ were the ones to warn you and that you knew I was doing this to stop the slaughter.”

She could feel Eirene’s eyes on her back, “Fine. Whatever. I’ll tell anyone you want that you’re slightly less of a bastard than they think.”

“That I fought for Prythian.”

“ _Like I said- fine_ ,” Mor stormed to the door. She hesitated with a hand on the knob, “Eirene, it would be helpful if we could get someone into the camp.” It was the last thing she wanted to think about, but of course would be Azriel’s first question.

“Someone you trust, but someone you wouldn’t necessarily mind losing if things go badly,” Eirene replied after a moment. “Plain fae. Nothing surprising. The gods have discussed taking in fae… pets.”

“I’ll think about it,” Mor left the room- the building- as quickly as she could.

She didn’t look back.

\---

* * *

 

\---

Tamlin studied the curious expression on Eirene’s face for a long time before he dared to ask, “Why did you keep asking about the song?”

“Is it a lullaby in your world?”

“Not in Spring. Not that I know. Why?”

Eirene crossed to a window and watched as Mor hastily paid for her tea before vanishing in a burst of black mist, “That song exists in our world too… it’s the song the poet Orpheus played for Hades and Persephone in payment for his wife’s soul.”

He frowned, “What does that mean?”

When Eirene turned, there were tears slipping down her cheeks, “I don’t know.”

“Then… what do you hope it means?”

She stared at Tamlin for a long time before whispering, “Persephone survived.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient! I was horribly ill last week and had to delay posting.

**Chapter 12**

Vele Luk was the most incredible- and ridiculous- place Feyre had ever seen.

Flying in from the north, she crossed a towering garden wall covered in row after row of geometric carvings. Behind the wall was a covered walkway that wholly enclosed a massive park. Paths followed the same geometric patterns from the walls and even the plants had been carefully selected and groomed to complement the mosaic-like space. Hundreds- perhaps thousands- of statues were sprinkled amidst intricate water features, and all were painted so brightly that it was hard to tell them from the very real fae wandering through the space.

The entrance to the garden was a gatehouse almost as large as the House of Wind, constructed entirely from white marble free of embellishment. Instead, decoration came from brilliant hues of gossamer curtains which rustled in the soft sea breeze.

And that was just  _ one _ of the gardens.

Four surrounded the palace of Vele Luk, with another four areas devoted to glass-tiled pools that revealed shimmering underwater designs. More bridges and paths snaked through these spaces, reflections of those in the gardens.

At the heart of that web sat the Grand Palace itself. The garden palace Feyre flew over was as large as the House of Wind, but with the Grand Palace rising behind, it might as well have been a cabin.

The palace was relatively low to the ground- the tallest portion being a series of round structures capped in mighty golden domes. The throne room and private theater would be inside. Behind the public galleries would be a relatively private section that only stood two-floors tall- quarters for honored guests, a sprawling trade library, and offices for commerce and shipping guilds.

The one-storey section, which Feyre circled the structure to reach, was the most secure. The private residence of the High Lord (and now Lady) of Night.

Columns held up a roof tiled in brilliantly colored glass. There were some walls in this new space, but most of it was a honeycomb of intricate screens designed to cut back the light without limiting the flow of air. The layout was more conservative, with each room granted a private space open to the air- either a small garden or wading pool.

Still, no matter how simple the design, there was still far too much wealth on display for Feyre’s tastes. Sculptures lined the private trail that wound through the rear gardens and lake- at least, she thought they were statues. All but three were draped in black cloth. Lapis lazuli and other precious stones accented the tops of columns and mother-of-pearl was set into the marble floors. As Feyre angled her flight down to the path that crossed the lake, she realized even the endless screens shading the private palace were edged in white-gold filigree.

“Welcome to our truly ridiculous home,” Rhys wandered out from behind the furthest statue from the palace- one of the uncovered ones.

“It’s as large as a city,” she said. Feyre hadn’t even managed to catch a glimpse of Vele Luk itself around the palace.

“Vele Luk is the wealthiest of Night’s cities. They never stop hoping to become our capital,” he said as he came over to embrace his wife. Rhys wasn’t wearing his typical jet-black tunic. Instead he was in a simple linen set that was dyed a midnight blue and had donned silver-embroidered  _ giveh _ \- a traditional Night Court shoe. With his warrior’s bulk and muscle it was impossible for Rhys to look non-threatening, but he’d come as close as possible.

Feyre peered over his shoulder at the two uncovered statues nearby and realized with a shock they were marble copies of both Rhysand and herself- complete with name plates at the bottom declaring her statue that of  ‘ _ Feyre Cursebreaker, first High Lady of Night _ ’.

“What the hell is that?”

Rhys didn’t bother looking as he released Feyre, “A statue for every single High Lord- and High Lady- of Night. You knew the artisans had statues made.”

“Yeah, but I never thought I’d actually see one,” she made a face at her copy. It looked proud, confident, and majestic, and so utterly full of itself she had to repress the urge to knock it over. Shortly after the war with Hybern, Rhysand had shown her the requests from artists to meet with the High Lady for such sculptures. 

Most major palaces of Night had statues at the entrance to mark the High Lord. Those who did not think to include Feyre in such displays had received a stern reminder that they now served two masters.

Feyre hated every second of the sitting, but she bowed to the traditions of her Court. Now faced with one of the statues she wished she’d trusted her instincts and refused.

“If you refused, we were going to have to get more creative,” Rhys read the distaste on Feyre’s face. “The statues mark this Court’s legacy. As much as you- and I- may not like being immortalized, I will not let them erase you from our history. Night has a High Lady now, and I will make sure generations to come remember that.”

“And if I demanded you destroy the statues?”

“I’d hide them and say I smashed them to pieces,” Rhys smiled. He took her hands, “I know you don’t like them, but you have no idea how many young females you inspire. They see these and they see a female in power in a world where only males were considered worthy of the throne. You’re their hero, and the statues remind them anything is possible.”

“Well when you put it  _ that _ way,” she relented. The dead eyes of her statue made Feyre’s skin crawl, but Rhys was right. It wasn’t about her.

“I’ll put a cloth over it,” Rhys offered.

“ _ Please _ .”

He snapped his fingers and black draping fell from above to cover her face. Feyre turned to look down the row of Night’s rulers stretching towards the residential side of the palace. These males were no inspiration, and they certainly weren’t mighty. They were the ones who’d forced Persephone to produce child after child on behalf of their own sick ambitions. 

Even the High Lords who came before her tormentors were shrouded. Considering the darkness Night was known for, Feyre was certain they’d earned the black cloths that obscured them. If she never knew their names or faces that would be just fine.

“Can we smash Leith’s statue?” Feyre asked. He was the High Lord who first captured Persephone.

“As tempting as it is, we can’t destroy our Court’s history. I’ve thought about wiping his name from all records… but justified as it is, such an action sets a dangerous precedent… I ordered his portraits sealed in a vault, and whenever I am visiting Vele Luk his statue remains covered. That’s the best I can do.”

Feyre walked away from Rhys down the line. She counted in her head until she saw which belonged to the monster Leith. Even if Feyre never saw his face, he was still a stain on her entire Court. 

She didn’t ask Rhys who the third uncovered statue was. He was smaller than those around him, but stood proud nonetheless.

High Lord Gildas. Azriel’s half-brother who finally freed Persephone from her prison beneath the Hewn Palace. His reign only lasted a couple of weeks before Rhys’ grandfather killed him. He succeeded in freeing his mother for at least a few centuries before the Illyrians captured her.

“He looks like Az,” Feyre said. The resemblance to Persephone wasn’t as strong as in his distant half-brother, but Gildas had the same tight-lipped smile and even carved into lifeless stone, his eyes seemed to pierce her soul. 

“One of my first thoughts when I met Azriel was how much he looked like the statue of Gildas,” Rhys smiled.

“Yeah, he’s adorable. How far out is our favorite Shadowsinger?” Mor called from within the palace. To ease Persephone into being around so many people a decision had been made that only Rhys, Feyre, and Amren would greet them upon arrival. Mor would join them for supper and Cassian for dessert. 

Elain had been sent back to Velaris, grumpy at the secrecy, and Nesta was left behind at the Palace of Nightmares.

“You’ve got plenty of time,” Feyre called to the palace. 

Moments later one of the wooden screens swung inward, revealing Mor back from her shopping, “We have a situation.”

“The good kind or the bad kind?” Rhys hooked an arm around Feyre’s shoulders as they walked towards Mor. He threw a shield up around them all, just in case any curious ears might be listening.

“The kind where Hades has decided to not be cool about Amren killing Persephone and plans to attack us tomorrow if we refuse to hand her over. Oh- and they’re also going to commit genocide against all of Night’s citizens.”

Mor was only mildly concerned, and Feyre felt a tendril of fear down the bond from Rhys. They both knew there was no real threat of danger, but the shadow of war was too near to just be brushed aside.

“He won’t care about Amren after tomorrow,” Rhys shrugged and did his best to keep the nerves from his voice. “Azriel will talk to him and everything will be fine.”

Except Azriel wanted to size Hades up before revealing Persephone, and based on what he’d been saying before Feyre left, he seemed to think he could take his time revealing her. If she was ready or not, they now needed to show Hades his wife.

“Everything will be fine,” Amren’s voice heralded her arrival with Varian. The two came out of the shadows between two columns. He wasn’t allowed in Vele Luk once Persephone arrived, and Amren accepted no restrictions from Azriel as Cassian and Mor had. If anything, Persephone needed to be near Amren even more than Azriel to feel comfortable. She could go wherever she wanted, and stand as close to her friend as she desired.

“Who gave you your information?” Rhys asked Mor.

She shrugged, “Azriel isn’t the only one with eyes on the ground. By the way- there aren’t three hundred of them. There were camps throughout at least Prythian if not the continent as well. My spies estimate over a thousand.”

“Again-” Amren said quickly as the color drained from both Rhys and Feyre’s faces, “everything will be fine.”

“And if it isn’t the armies of Prythian will fight to defend the people of Night,” Varian said immediately. Feyre didn’t tell him the Graecian attack would be the equivalent of one thousand High Lords descending upon them. Summer may very well change their tune in the face of such a foe.

‘ _ Everything will be fine _ ,’ Rhys whispered Amren’s words across their bond.

‘ _ Part of me wishes Hades was coming tonight so we can just- _ ’ the noose tightened around her throat and Feyre left Rhys to read the rest of it. She was going to be on edge every second until Hades saw Persephone- and even then she couldn’t relax. He could very well see the state she was left in and declare war on Night anyways.

That thought didn’t just give her pause- it made the blood freeze in her veins.

What if the war with Hybern could be counted as ‘the good old days’?

“I’m going to take Feyre on a tour of the palace,” Rhys said after a moment. 

Feyre knew he could feel the misery and stress radiating from her. She was too tired to fly again, and with a tap he convinced her to shift back into her High Fae form. She needed a distraction until Azriel arrived, and hopefully he would give her permission to speak with Rhysand about the meeting with Hades and how to prevent an apocalypse in Night.

Amren just nodded and stepped aside as Rhysand walked into the Grand Palace with Feyre. She barely paid attention as he led her down endless hallways with increasingly ostentatious design and into the public wings of the palace. Talking helped distract him, so she let him babble on about the ghosts of Vele Luk, raids by sea pirates, and conspiracy theories regarding hidden treasure troves. 

There was too much gold-leaf brushed onto the endless stone columns and archways. Most rooms were filled with blinding color that should have wholly engrossed her- especially the public entryway and it’s chaotic explosion of pigments that her eyes sorted out into thousands of tile peacocks. Feyre’s soul should have been singing at the beauty of Vele Luk, but the cold had set in too deeply and woken old evils lurking there.

Rhys was showing her the inside of the largest dome- inlaid with crystals and midnight blue stones to form a night sky that twinkled in the light of even a single candle- when he felt something approaching the city on mighty wings.

Azriel, only an hour or two behind Feyre.

“Hey, ready to head back?”

She nodded and a moment later a tendril of Rhys’ mind brushed against hers. Feyre opened the door for him into her soul. He said nothing down their bond, but shared his awe at meeting her on Calanmai, his grief at seeing her emaciated and defeated in Spring, and the hopeful pride he felt in watching her pull herself back from the brink of oblivion. Rhysand gave her the grief and love of a male watching the female who held his heart first break, then heal. 

Emotions that hopefully Hades would reciprocate enough to spare Night.

“Thank you,” she murmured as they re-entered the private wing of the palace.

Rhysand kissed her forehead gently, and kept his arm around her shoulders as they walked down the main corridor. Rainbow light danced across his face as they headed towards the lake and its High Lord statues. Feyre rested her head on his shoulder and offered her own happy memories to ease his nerves- even tossing in her own memory of Calanmai when she’d first seen him and realized he was the most beautiful male in creation. Rhys chuckled in spite of his worries and squeezed her shoulder.

The wards around Persephone’s cabin kept her safe for five hundred years, but it was impossible for Azriel to shield her from sight as he flew. Leith’s collar contained her magic and prevented any power that touched her from working. So when Azriel finally did appear, he was so high in the sky that Feyre nearly mistook him for a bird.

He banked and angled for a sharp dive towards the line of covered High Lords. Persephone was tight against his chest- both held in his arms and lashed in place, just in case he were to come under attack. Her face was buried against her son’s neck as he angled upward and flapped his wings to slow their descent. 

He touched down lightly and Feyre released Rhysand. He would stay by the door while she slowly approached to greet the two. She paused by the statue of Gildas.

“We’re here,” Azriel murmured as he knelt on the stone. He set Persephone down and curled his wings around them, protecting her from sight. There was some fidgeting as he pulled on the strap to release her. Feyre heard the dull  _ thud _ of a bag hitting the tile and her chest tightened. It sounded light.

After a few minutes Azriel’s wings slowly folded, revealing Persephone neatly situated on her wheeled platform. The pack Feyre had heard was almost empty with the device removed- it held no more than two simple dresses.

She was taking nothing with her. No trinkets from her cabin, no memories of Prythian. It broke Feyre’s heart to see the hastily veiled grief in Azriel’s face. He knew Feyre had seen what was in the bag. Azriel closed it and shrugged.

‘ _ Are you alright?’ _ she asked him silently.

‘ _ I’m fine. It isn’t like there was anything worth remembering _ ,’ his mind closed to her in an instant… but Feyre felt a flicker of pain. He was afraid his mother would simply walk away from him as well.

“I’m going to ask two very trusted friends to take this bag to our rooms, alright?” Azriel said quietly to his mother. “Their names are Nuala and Cerridwen, and they’ll be taking care of you while we are here.”

Persephone reached for Azriel’s knee and pulled herself closer to him, burying her face against it. He put a hand on her back and nodded.

Nuala and Cerridwen appeared in a whisper of darkness. Cerridwen picked up the bag as if it were something precious. Both twins backed away slowly, keeping their heads bowed in reverence until they passed both Feyre and Rhys and disappeared into the shadows of the palace.

“Welcome to Vele Luk,” Feyre said. Persephone slowly turned her face, only so far as to see Feyre from the very corner of her eye.

“It is an honor to see you again, fair Lady,” Rhys spoke from his position by the door, but he bowed low.

Persephone’s grip on Azriel’s leg tightened.

“Once upon a time the King of the Gods himself made the mistake of trying to seduce the gentle and sweet goddess of growth and rebirth,” Amren drawled as she came out from the palace hall with her hands on her hips. “She let him come close and bend down for a kiss- then promptly kneed him in the groin so hard that his cock is probably still black and blue. A year later that pretty little thing was crowned Queen of the Underworld.” 

The goddess in question turned a little more. When Amren passed Feyre, Persephone took a hand off of Azriel’s leg and reached out. Amren smiled broadly as she knelt and took her friend’s hand. “They’re good people, don’t worry,” Amren’s voice was soft, warm. “You raised Azriel and I beat the others into shape.”

Feyre’s eyes widened as Persephone released Azriel and embraced the archangel who’d chased her into Prythian. “I have the chambers that connect to yours,” Amren said once the hug was broken, “I swear you will be safe. And to welcome you properly-”

She snapped her fingers and a moment later three small black things shot out from behind Rhys. The shapes moved quickly and began to squeak as they raced for Amren.

Puppies.

Small, black-furred puppies.

They tried (and failed) to skid to a stop before crashing into Persephone’s cart. Only Azriel’s hand on his mother’s back stopped them from rocking her as they leapt up onto her, stunning the goddess. She waved her hands side to side in a panic and at a loss for how to handle the swarm. Her eyes were closed tight as she pushed back on Azriel’s hand, willing him to stop the sudden onslaught.

One puppy managed to climb her chest far enough to begin licking at the column of her throat. Another found a perch that brought it close to Persephone’s cheeks. As they licked, squeaked, and even nibbled on her, the goddess’ hands slowed. She dared look down at the bundles of fur. After a moment, Persephone’s fingers came in range of the smallest puppy and it immediately began to nip, then lick. When it tucked its ears in and rubbed its face against her palm she leaned away from Azriel.

Little by little she gave the puppies more attention. After a moment, she scooped the smallest up in her hand. Its older sibling crawled into the crook of her arm. The third puppy lost its balance and fell backwards into her lap, where it wriggled fiercely belly-up until it managed to get its paws back under it. 

“I don’t know if Hades brought Cerberus with him, but you can have three one-headed dogs at least. And I think they’ll be taller than you when they’re fully grown.”

The ghost of a smile lit her eyes as Persephone looked up at Amren, then back down to the puppies.

Azriel studied his mother as she began to stroke the little dog in her hand. When he at last turned his gaze on Amren, he bowed his head in gratitude. 

“Are you ready to go inside?” Amren asked Persephone. The smile faded from the goddess’ lips and she held the puppies a little closer. Feyre could see her trembling.

She looked like she wanted nothing more than for Azriel to scoop her up and fly her back to her cabin. 

“Come on,” Azriel said softly, “you’ll feel better once you’re indoors.”

Persephone sat up straight, but not to show any confidence. Az put a hand on her shoulder as he stood. Walking hunched over, he lightly pushed her forward. Amren walked a step ahead, so that Persephone could see her easily and know she was still nearby.

Feyre offered a smile as they passed, but Persephone turned her head away and closed her eyes again. She was visibly shaking as they approached- then passed- Rhysand. He was a boy the last time she saw him, and now he had the same title as so many of the males who had abused her.

“It’s alright,” Rhys came to offer a hug. When Persephone and her guides had all disappeared down a side hall, the pair headed into the palace. “Like Amren said- everything is going to be alright.”

Rhys and Feyre rounded a corner, leaving the lake and it’s row of High Lords (and Lady) statues behind.

They didn’t see the covered sculpture closest to the door turn its head.

They didn’t see it step out of place.

They didn’t see it enter the palace.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Azriel reclined on one of the low couches that lined his suites and tried not to watch his mother too closely.

She was nervous, terrified of being crushed once again under a High Lord’s palace. Just because Persephone could see sunlight through the lattice-wood screens that covered the windows did not mean she wasn’t in danger.

The same sun was warm on her skin when she was made to conceive Azriel.

He was afraid of her fear, which only made _her_ afraid of _his_ fear. Persephone tried not to watch him as much as he tried not to watch her, but both mother and son monitored the other’s every breath.

 _‘Whispers of death stirr in the hallway. Their presence disrupts the air, even as we welcome its touch_ ,’ his shadows- the voices of the dead- whispered.

“Mother, the door is about to open,” Azriel said softly.

Persephone raised her arms from where she sat surrounded by three now-sleeping puppies. Latticework covered two long walls of the room, with the low couches sitting against them. Azriel crossed the marble floors, his boots falling silent as he stepped onto a thick scarlet rug.

He lifted his mother with ease and set her down on the far end of his own couch- where she could sit with the screens to one side and a solid wall behind her. While Persephone undid the straps on her cart and pulled herself off of it, he gathered the puppies to transport them onto the pillows beside her.

Azriel sat and stretched out a wing to block her from sight before saying, “Enter.”

As his shadows promised, the door was opened by a whisper of death- Nuala, with Cerridwen on her heels.

The wraiths kept their heads bowed as they moved towards a low table in the center of the room. They moved with an intoxicating fluidity- something akin to mist disturbed by a soft breeze. His mother grabbed the ridge of his wing and held him in place, shivering. She knew the light shining behind her only meant the two could see her more clearly.

His spies carried two trays- one of hot tea, the other piled with fresh foods ranging from ripe fruit to dainty cakes.

They knelt on the carpets beside the table and bowed their heads.

“Thank you,” Azriel said.

Nuala and Cerridwen stood and backed slowly from the room. He kept an eye on them as they left, but also monitored Persephone, cowering behind his wing. Once the door closed she eased her grip.

Her hands fell into her lap, limp, and her whole body seemed to sag. Azriel reached out to squeeze her hand- it was trembling. She turned her head towards the wall, burying her face in the stone as she cried.

“What’s wrong, mother?” he said softly.

She pulled her hand from his and grasped it tightly with the other. Azriel had no warning before Persephone lashed out- slamming her hand into the marble. She lifted her face from the stone and he saw a snarl on her lips as she beat the wall repeatedly, then pinned one hand down with the other. It still shook, and that only made her angrier.

 _‘I’m sick of being scared_ ,’ Azriel had never heard his mother speak, but she made her feelings clear.

“Stop- please,” he grabbed her wrist before she could punish her hands any more. The puppies had stirred at her outburst and now they were squeaking as they tried to figure out what was wrong, “It’s alright.”

Persephone shook her head and pulled her hands from his.

“Well… at least you won’t have to be afraid much longer,” Azriel murmured. “Your family is coming tomorrow.”

He thought it would help ease her frustration, it worked… in a way.

All emotion melted from his mother’s face, just as it had when he first told her the Grecians had come. According to Nuala and Cerridwen’s reports, it was the same reaction Rhysand had Under the Mountain whenever someone whispered of freedom. He couldn’t imagine going back, and didn’t know how to be the person they’d known.

Persephone was trapped in Prythian for fifteen thousand years. To her real family, only four thousand years actually passed. Four thousand years didn’t even cover her time beneath the Hewn Palace.

She wasn’t the female they knew, not in any real sense.

After a while she turned from her son, scooted the puppies away from her lap, and pushed herself forward on the couch. Azriel moved to help her, but Persephone pulled away. She planted her feet on the floor and shoved off from the couch as hard as she could.

She managed to make it into a sort of squatting position. Azriel obediently stayed back as his mother took one agonizing step, then another. Pain lashed her face and a whimper escaped her lips, but she was determined to prove she could manage something at least.

After the third step, she fell onto her knees. Azriel winced, but at least she’d landed on the rug. It cushioned her as she shuddered and took several deep, settling breaths. She pulled herself the rest of the way to Nuala and Cerridwen’s tray using only her hands. By the time she arrived she was sweating, panting, and flush with pain.

“Can I at least fix the tea?” he asked.

Persephone stared her son down as she lifted the silver carafe of hot water and poured it over the strainers in their cups. He sighed and got up from the couch. The puppies squeaked indignantly, so before he went to the table he picked them up and placed them on the floor. They promptly ran to swarm his mother once again.

“Just in case you were going to try and bring my mug over,” Azriel said as he plopped down across from his mother.

The temper in her eyes faded and reached out her hand. Azriel took it and Persephone drew him over so that his palm was pressed against her cheek. She closed her eyes and sighed.

‘ _I’m sorry_.’

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said.

Persephone released his hand and reached over to pat his cheek this time.

When she pushed the plate of snacks towards him, he barked a laugh, “Now don’t start on that.” She made a face and picked up one of the small finger-cakes to set it in front of them, then set his tea beside it. Azriel picked up the cake and set it in front of her, “I’m not hungry.”

She returned it, then nudged it closer, ‘ _Eat_.’

“Mother, I said I’m not hungry,” he put it in front of _her_ and nudged it.

Persephone pursed her lips to fight back the smile that finally brought a little light into her eyes as she reached out and started picking at his face and jaw, emphasizing how difficult it was to find enough skin to pinch.

‘ _You’re too thin._ ’

“Oh, you want to talk about weight?” He laughed as he started pinching at her own face- the difference being that his mother was ticklish along the sides of her throat above where the collar sat. She squirmed and swatted at his hands to fend him off, but her smile remained.

Persephone picked up a second cake and put it in front of him, then picked up the (fairly dented) one in front of her. She lifted it and raised her eyebrows, ‘ _We’ll both eat._ ’

“Deal,” Azriel picked up his cake and raised it to her in salute. He waited for his mother to do the same thing. Slowly, they both drew their food closer, waiting to make sure the other was truly intending to eat. When Persephone took a small bite of one corner, he abruptly shoved the entire cake into his mouth in one go.

She clicked her tongue at him and Azriel grinned as he chewed, not caring that his cheeks were straining and food threatened to tumble from his mouth. As she’d done ever since he was a child, Persephone picked up a napkin and started wiping bits of crumb and frosting from his face immediately. She swatted his arm as he swallowed the first bit and his triumphant smile only grew.

It was a moment of levity- a gift from him to his mother to give her strength. Even if he was born of something evil and cruel, he could still be her light in the darkness.

Azriel finished chewing and cleared his throat, “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to see your world.”

Persephone’s smile faded. She reached out to pat his cheek… and shook her head.

‘ _No_ ’.

\---

* * *

 

\---

Mor, Amren, Rhysand, and Feyre were waiting in the dining room when Azriel- looking utterly defeated- and Persephone arrived.

Rhys had ordered the long mahogany table be removed and replaced with a small, circular table more traditional to Day Court. They were to dine sitting on cushions upon the floor- that way when Persephone entered she could see them all at her own level.

The dining room was massive, especially without its usual furniture. A nearly oppressive amount of gold leaf was painted over marble columns which connected to a truly ridiculous ceiling. At its center, above the circular table, a grand chandelier of rainbow glass formed the center of a flower. The petals were sculpted into the ceiling itself and crusted in chips of lapis lazuli and other precious stones. It glittered blindingly, and Azriel didn’t miss the elbow Mor threw into Feyre’s ribs to draw the High Lady’s attention from that ceiling to their new guests.

Persephone had bathed since they last saw her. Her hair- braided back by Azriel, was shining in the candlelight. Mor caught a whiff of the bath soaps she had purchased in Day, a lovely jasmine and freesia concoction that was subtle yet striking.

Her dress had been changed in favor of a lavender one that was again tucked neatly around her legs. She had two short canes in her hands- neither longer than a forearm- and used them to pull herself forward across the floor. As they approached she moved closer and closer to Azriel’s ankles, but she seemed determined to not hide behind her son.

“Lady Persephone, it is an honor to see you again,” Mor bowed her head low as Persephone moved to the empty space beside Amren. There was no cushion in the area for her to sit on- as per Amren’s orders. Azriel would sit between his mother and Mor, with Feyre and Rhysand across from her.

Persephone stared hard at the table, unable to force herself to look around. Amren wrapped an arm through Persephone’s and snapped her fingers.

Nuala and Cerridwen approached from the kitchens, each with a large covered platter. They entered the room behind Rhys and Feyre so that Azriel’s mother could see them coming. She drew Amren closer as the twins neared.

In defiance of Azriel’s express orders, Nuala rounded the table to stand between Rhysand and Amren as she set the main platter down. His mother recoiled further as the female approached, then froze when a tendril of graveyard mist rolled from her to break upon Persephone’s skin.

She actually looked up at Nuala- her focus unwavering and unafraid. There was something like devastation shining in Persephone’s eyes.

“Enjoy your meal,” Nuala bowed and reached over the platter to lift the lid. Cerridwen remained between Feyre and Mor as she braced her tray, removed the lid, and crouched low so that the females could pass around four plates piled high with _injera_ bread.

Nuala and Cerridwen backed away from the table, bowed again, and retreated to the kitchens to begin work on dessert. Still, Persephone watched the door they vanished through, not caring that she was looking between a High Lord and Lady.

Something changed in her demeanor. For better or worse, no one could tell.

“Azriel mentioned you like this dish,” Rhys said gently, drawing Persephone’s attention back to the table. She shrunk into Amren and lowered her eyes from his. Not quite as terrified as she’d once been, but far from comfortable.

Nuala’s platter held a large disk of thick, spongey _injera_ , atop which was piled large scoops of different Illyrian stews that varied in levels of spiciness. The plates Mor and Feyre passed around held small circles of _injera_ rolled and piled like hand towels.

To eat the dish, one simply had to tear off a bit of the bread and use it to pick up a bite of the stew.

While it was true Azriel’s mother enjoyed the dish, it was chosen more for the way in which it was consumed- without any need for a knife and with everyone eating from the same platter. The first was in case Persephone could not handle the sight of a High Lord with a knife- given their history of torturing her. The second was a quiet way to reassure her the food was not drugged to incapacitate her or Azriel and facilitate her re-capture.

Azriel spun the platter until a light brown chicken-based stew was pointed in their direction. He tore off his bite of bread and scooped up a bit of meat, then ate it without incident. He then reached over and took the glass of water in front of his mother, poured a little into his mouth without letting his lips touch her cup, and set it back in place.

Food and water tested.

The siphons on his hands glowed as Azriel summoned his power to detect what he already knew was absent- poison, sedatives, or paralytics. Nothing.

“It’s a little salty for my taste,” he said softly as Persephone studied his face, “but otherwise it’s fine.”

The rest of the table waited with bated breaths as Amren nudged Persephone into taking a bite of chicken for herself.

Once she reached for a second piece, the others took it as permission to dine freely.

The platter was spun time and again as everyone focused on their favorite stews, but no matter what was in front of Persephone, she would eat the closest dish. Her face was red with the spices at times- prompting Azriel to pour her a glass of iced milk. Nothing was more important to him than his mother’s comfort, so he didn’t feel any guilt when he turned the dish and held it in place, forcing the others to focus on the spicier side and give her a chance at the mild.

Persephone didn’t eat as much as her son had hoped, but she ate enough to take the edge off her hunger. He wasn’t entirely joking during tea earlier- she needed more food. He made a mental note to ask the twins to prepare a smaller platter of the mild dishes to bring to his suite.

“Lady Persephone?” once the meal was finished Mor looked to Azriel’s mother. “We are going to be joined by Cassian now, so I’m going to move a bit closer to you and Az. Is that alright?”

She’d flinched when Mor said her name, but nodded and let Amren pull her a bit closer. The cushions were shifted and a new space opened between Rhysand and Amren.

Rhys must have been the one to send the signal, because without any further word the doors opened and Cassian came in. He wore a simple white shirt and brown linen pants. For the first time in weeks there was no scowl on his face, but a soft, bland smile. His wings were tucked tight against his back, and he stretched them out to drape behind him as he sat.

“As always, Lady, I just don’t see how someone so lovely could have produced our dear Azriel.”

Persephone was trembling again, and she reached behind her with one hand to tug at Azriel’s wing. Amren froze as she untangled herself from her old friend’s side and shifted closer to her son, who used the wing as a dividing line. It wasn’t his joke that frightened her, it was the sheer crush of people.

Nuala and Cerridwen reappeared a moment later with individual plates of _tulumba_ \- fried dough covered in a sweet syrup and served once cooled. The twins set one serving in front of each, but Nuala paused on the other side of Amren. She did not dare come closer to Azriel’s mother.

“It’s alright,” he said. He was curious about what his mother might do. As soon as the twins appeared her attention was once again wholly on the half-wraiths.

Nuala nodded and stepped around Amren, keeping her motion slow. She lifted the plate from her tray and set it down gently, then placed a small fondue fork in the bowl- Azriel had requested the utensil for his mother.

Persephone shrunk away from the twin, but not nearly as much as she should have. She watched Nuala carefully, and when the wraith’s arm accidentally bumped her shoulder- Azriel’s mother held her breath and a single tear slid down her cheek. Beyond that, nothing.

“Az? Are you alright?” Cassian leaned over to inspect his friend’s face.

He swallowed hard to clear his throat before nodding, “I’m fine, why?”

“Because someone put something sweet in front of you thirty seconds ago and it’s still there,” Cassian shrugged. The Inner Circle had been warned against too much joking at the table (in case it got out of hand as usual), but he was genuinely concerned with the look on Azriel’s face. Az wasn’t going to leave his mother’s side in Vele Luk, so it wasn’t like he would have the chance to ask how he was doing.

“Oh, um, I’m not very hungry tonight,” Azriel noticed a flicker of worry in his mother’s eyes. She’d managed to eat only one piece of _tulumba_ , but considering how scared she was of most of the table, that was a feat.

Azriel picked up a small piece of fried dough and popped it into his mouth. He knew the weight hadn’t left his gaze. His mother looked back to her food.

Something bothered him, and he cast his shadows out into the room.

‘ _The banshee has come to Vele Luk. It watches you. It watches the Queen._ ’  The shadows whispered as Azriel cautiously surveyed the room.

Under the guise of looking at each of his friends, he studied the space. There was a glittering column in the distance behind Rhys- but the flicker of faelight on stone would have revealed anyone lurking. Feyre’s back was to the kitchen doors, where Nuala and Cerridwen stood watch. He trusted them implicitly. The only thing behind Mor was a black-draped statue that was of no interest to-

Azriel’s eyes snapped back to the statue-

It was already gone.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Feyre waited in the air above the Grand Palace of Vele Luk.

Dinner went well enough the night before, but breakfast was an absolute disaster.

Her stomach twisted as she remembered it.

Persephone hadn’t slept all night and her grasp on reality was tenuous- or so Azriel whispered into her mind. His mother was pale and shaking, yet wide-eyed and alert. Every sound made her flinch.

Coughing set her off.

Rhys had a bit of tea go down the wrong pipe and when he choked, it was like a cannon blast across the silent breakfast table. Persephone tried to shove herself back- to hide herself behind her son- but the wheels of her cart stuck for a moment, and she screamed. The harder she tried to free herself, the more her wheels stuck and the more trapped she became.

Amren and Azriel tried to calm her down, but there was no recognition in her eyes. Any sight was long gone as she shattered. Too late, Azriel thought to undo the straps holding her on the cart. Whatever memory her panic trapped her in only became that much worse the second his hand touched her leg.

Persephone did something Feyre would never have expected- she attacked. Azriel roared as a fork stabbed into the membrane of his wing. His mother dragged it down, ripping through the delicate flesh by panicked strength alone.

Feyre and Rhys both scrambled to their feet as Amren wrenched Persephone’s arm back, but she whirled and buried the fork in Amren’s shoulder. All Amren could think to do was wrap her hand around the base of the utensil and keep it there, disarming her friend.

Still trapped, she threw herself at Azriel once more and clawed at his face, even as he shouted and tried to reach her in her panic. Nails gouged his flesh until Mor shoved in between them. Originally sitting on the other side of Azriel, she’d tried to winnow him to the far end of the room, but so long as his mother touched him her collar prevented it.

Feyre pulled Amren away, giving Cassian and Rhys the chance to grab Persephone and pin her arms behind her.

A High Lord had her arms pinned.

She was surrounded by angry-looking males.

Her scream of horror, rage, grief, pain, and despair- that was what made Feyre shudder as she circled the palace.

In a single, horrible scream Persephone told them her story. She didn’t need words. Just one scream for 7,500 years of degradation, humiliation, and overwhelming pain.

It was Nuala who ended the madness.

Feyre- trying to hold Amren back- didn’t even see the half-wraith enter. After Persephone’s scream she was simply there. No words could reach her as she fought against Rhys and Cassian, against Mor, against Azriel. Nuala simply knelt beside Mor and took Persephone’s face in her hands.

She stared the goddess down until her eyes could see again. Until the dark depths of the half-wraith’s gaze drew her back.

When the fight left her, Rhys and Cassian released her arms. A shaking, bloody hand touched Mor’s shoulder and she backed away, giving Azriel a chance to break the strap on Persephone’s cart.

His face was a mess of blood and scratches. Most of the cuts were shallow, but a large on near his right eye and a missing chunk of his lip would require a healer. His eyes watered, but Feyre doubted he’d even noticed that his nose was broken. Not considering the fist-sized hole in his wing.

A shock of cold nausea shot through her. Feyre didn’t think she’d ever be able to forget that sight.

Persephone had jerked back from Nuala’s grasp as Azriel sagged. Confused sparked in her eyes, then surprise, and then-

He’d flinched when she touched an unblemished patch of jaw. Sobs wracked his mother- both from whatever she’d seen in her hallucination, and the horror of what she did to her child.

“I’m okay,” Azriel murmured over and over again as she tried to stroke his face. When she saw the damage to his wing she collapsed onto his lap and grasped the bottom of his shirt tightly- her way of begging for forgiveness.

Amren pushed Feyre over slightly, using the High Lady’s body to hide the fork still embedded in her arm.

“I’ll get the physician,” Rhys stood and staggered back. He was pale with fear- they all were.

“Madja has experience with wings-”

“No,” Rhys cut Mor off. “I’ll get the palace healers.”

He couldn’t simply winnow Vele Luk’s healers into the room. Not with Persephone there.

Feyre took Amren to her bedchamber. She judged the wound fairly straightforward and removed the fork at last. Nuala and Mor were allowed to help Azriel and his mother to their ooms. Persephone would remain locked in the bedroom, sobbing, while the physician stitched his wounds.

Hades was coming to kill Amren, Azriel was still bleeding, and last Feyre had heard, Amren was mixing up a sedative to make her friend sleep.

If there was a right time for a war-minded death god to arrive in Vele Luk, this was not it.

Feyre felt something ripple through the earth far below. She banked and studied the sky to the west. On the distant horizon was an oddly disjointed bird- Pegasus. Most likely.

‘ _He’s going to give us a chance to hand over Amren,’_ she reminded herself. She didn’t know what they were going to tell him, but Hades would be civil… at first.

Rhys was helping the healers with Azriel, so Feyre reached out to Cassian. In an instant a dark shape rocketed up from the back of the palace to monitor the skies.

Feyre looked across the city as another ripple wracked her senses. Vele Luk was larger than anything she’d ever seen, it even made Velaris look quaint by comparison. The streets were narrow, buildings leaned against one another, and massive warehouses dotted the cityscape.

If the ripple was felt on land, nothing gave it away. No birds took flight, no plumes of dust- nothing. The city could be destroyed by even a light earthquake, but nothing happened on land. The sea shimmered as that strange wave reached it, but it was barely enough of a disturbance to rock the shipping freighters.

Hades wouldn’t open with total destruction.

Feyre touched down in the entryway as another ripple of power pulsed through the earth. The hair on her arms rose, and she felt something cold and thick moving beneath her.

Marble tiles began to crack. Feyre opened her wings, but the air was thick. Too thick to fly through. It felt as if she were underwater, but she could still breathe easily enough. The High Lady turned slowly, it was torture. Her muscles groaned, then screamed in protest. Beneath her feet the tile turned from white to mold-gray.

She stumbled, and in righting herself caught sight of her reflection in a palace window.

The air wasn’t getting thicker. She was growing older.

Her skin and wings sagged under the weight of millenia she hadn’t yet lived. Liver spots coated her body where freckles once sat. Her brassy hair was mostly gray, with more color bleaching from it by the second.

“ _Cassian!”_ she wasn’t capable of summoning the strength to scream, but the drain on her soul hadn’t reached her mind.

He didn’t hesitate. Cassian rocketed for Feyre at the heart of the spreading decay. He called to Rhys, but no response came. As Cassian shot for his High Lady and friend, her body withered and her blue eyes grew cloudy, blind.

She was only a few feet from him when she went still. Her hand was outstretched and raw fear shone naked on her face.

Cassian grabbed her wrist-

-and Feyre Archeron exploded into dust.

\---

* * *

 

\---

“RHYSAND!”

Azriel raced out of the bathing room at Mor’s shout. Most of his bleeding had stopped, but the sudden movement sent splinters of nauseous pain through his wing.

Rhys was on the floor, writing in agony. He choked and clawed at some invisible foe while his flesh turned gray. Mor sent wave after wave of power through him as she tried to find something to fix or fight off.

He wasn’t hurt, so why-

Azriel cursed, “RHYS YOU STUPID PRICK, DROP THE GLAMOUR!”

A tattoo appeared on his friend’s arm- one that was a twin to the bond Hybern had destroyed in Feyre. It marked a very different type of bargain though- one which was commonplace between mates.

“Feyre’s dying,” Azriel swore again and screamed into his shadows, “I know you’re here! Save him!”

Something scraped against the door. Cold mist rolled in beneath it and broke on a very different wave of power.

Not his-

Nuala and Cerridwen’s.

The twins appeared out of thin air to block whatever was on the other side. Rhys struggled for air, his lips were turning blue.

A decaying, rotten hand pulled Mor away from his side. She was cloaked and veiled in black, just as she had been when Azriel caught sight of her in the dining room. An uninvited guest, but one he wasn’t stupid enough to send away.

Achlys.

Nuala and Cerridwen’s mother.

She rested a boney claw over Rhys’ face and dug in until beads of blood formed on an arch over his brow. His lips she sliced with a thumb, but once blood filled the seam of his mouth, the blue tint faded.

His turquoise eyes grew dim.

“The High Lady-”

“-as long as he lives, she’ll live,” the wraith’s voice was a low, dying rasp.

Something collided with the door.

“They have Cassian,” Nuala said.

“Amren has been forcibly removed to Velaris,” Cerridwen snarled at the door. Each twin held ready two moon-white blades. They were curved slightly like the _kilij_ , but more narrow. Shorter.

Another crash, and the door buckled against Azriel’s shields.

“Get him out of here,” Azriel snapped at Achlys. In his right mind he wouldn’t dare address the wraith in such a way. Not since he knew what was under that veil.

“Cerridwen-”

“No! You!” He interrupted the wraith. Mor took up a position in front of Persephone’s door.

“I am not sworn to protect your master,” Achlys barked with a ferocity he’d never heard. “ _Cerridwen_ , take the High Lord to my home and seal him away where none can find him- now!”

Azriel’s spy broke from her sister’s side. Carefully, Achlys withdrew her nails from Rhys’ face. He began to gasp and thrash. Cerridwen touched him, and a moment later they were gone.

If not for the collar, the same trick might have helped Persephone.

“Lower your shields,” Achlys said.

“What?!”

“That’s your friend they’re using to break down the door. Lower your damn shields, boy!”

He did as he was told.

The door buckled, shattered, and Cassian was blasted into the room. He was covered in blood, dazed, and didn’t even try to get up after landing beside Nuala. Achlys took Cerridwen’s position.

“Stop.”

A wraith should have no authority over a death-god from another world, but as the mist rolled into the room there were no further attacks.

Two women materialized in the fog. Both in black gowns with dark veils. In the space between them the mist solidified, revealing-

“Feyre!” Mor took a half step forward, but didn’t abandon her post.

Feyre’s skin was gray, her hair was white, and she was frozen mid-reach. Cassian turned himself over with a whimper of pain. Devastation wracked his features as he looked into Feyre’s eyes.

Two figures stepped out of the fog nex- Bellerophon and a female with long, black hair and sharp features. Azriel knew what she must be in an instant. There was no denying Persephone’s daughter. A near perfect replica of her mother.

And a child Persephone could look upon without being reminded of the Hell that brought her forth.

Hades walked in behind them, “Achlys? So, you found the way through after all.”

“Sister, come away from the enemy,” one of the black-clad women hissed.

‘ _Sister?!_ ’ Azriel felt a bitter wave break over him. He forced the rage back- there would be time later for Nuala and Cerridwen to explain themselves. If Achlys was Grecian, it was no coincidence her children found their way to him.

“You are making a mistake, King Hades,” the wraith hissed.

“Hardly. I’m making them an offer- the High Lady in exchange for Azrael. The archangel will answer for its crimes.”

“She’s long gone,” Mor snarled. Her daemati blood was weak, but she tugged at Azriel’s mind.

Bellerophon was pale. His eyes flickered to the window screens.

Mor noticed too late.

“There you go, nephew. I gave them a chance.” Hades said.

The windows exploded before Mor could pass on her warning. The shockwave knocked Mor to the far wall and cracked her head against the marble. Weak as he was, Cassian scrambled to his feet and drew his _yatagan_ as two males stepped into the room.

A man with black hair and olive skin was decorated with war-paint. Throwing knives were buckled in plain sight, and a menacing glint lit his eyes. He was fluid as he stalked into the room- like the dark smoke of destruction given form.

The other wore gleaming metal armor- a general’s version of Bel’s own. It was polished to a distracting gleam, and he watched Cassian through red-tinted eyes.

The armored one smirked as he advanced and the _yatagan_ trembled, “Are you sure you know how to use that?” Cassian snarled and charged. Their blades met in an explosion of sparks. While Cassian did stumbled into a retreat, the male nodded appreciatively, “Not terrible.”

Bellerophon stood aside as the woman threw herself towards Azriel. Nuala and Achlys were forced to let her pass as the other two wraith-women lashed out with spears of dark power. The mist advanced slowly. It aged and shriveled the rug wherever it touched.

Azriel dared spare a glance at Mor. She wasn’t badly injured, and had launched herself at the black-haired man. Mor absorbed what blows she could from Cassian’s foe while also whipping around the other male, keeping his back to Persephone’s door.

“Call off your dogs!” Azriel ignored his half-sister and addressed Hades directly.

“Will you give me the archangel?”

“No, but-”

“Then I shall let them run wild a bit longer.”

Darkness slammed into Azriel. It was filled with the screams of the dead, all roaring at once. Their souls cried out to him, tried to drown him in their unending nightmares-

-but Persephone’s children were armed with the same weapon. Azriel threw his own wave of night into the girl. She’d tried to overwhelm him, he chipped away at her control with everything at his disposal.

Blue siphons flashing, Azriel fought against the endless tide. He made himself deaf to the horrible voices and blind to the visions they tried to share. With a roar he lashed out with  blast of Illyrian might.

Power slammed into the woman, sending her flying into a column and breaking the dark haze around him.

Mor and Cassian were barely holding their own, and Achlys was fighting to protect Nuala more than herself. Hades had two long blades in each hand and when his daughter fell he advanced.

“Azriel, look out!” Mor shouted. Hades had thrown the blades- which Azriel easily blocked.

“Azriel, is it?” Hades pulled a knife from thin air and sent it rocketing towards him. Az was barely able to lift his blade to catch it in time, “You must belong to the archangel, then. Maybe I don’t need to kill it after all… It took something I loved. I’ll take everything it loves.”

A whole wave of the blades, this time stronger than before. Azriel was powerful, but he was no High Lord and Hades’ power was equal to that of even Rhysand. He stumbled and had to sacrifice precious ground.

“Stop,” Azriel ground his teeth as volley after volley slammed into him. “You don’t understand. Persephone is-”

“AZRIEL!” Mor’s scream was his only warning.

Hades was just a distraction. His daughter slipped around behind Azriel, raised her blade in an arc designed to sever both wings and spine-

He felt he blow connect… but not as he should have.

There was no pain.

No cold shock of metal through flesh.

Something felt heavy, and only grew heavier as Hades’ eyes widened and he staggered to a stop.

Horror twisted the death-god’s face.

Azriel’s blood went cold as something hot and red splashed over his neck. He heard a soft gasp in his ear- a sound he was only too familiar with.

He turned to catch her as she sagged. The bedroom door was open. She must have crawled, then threw herself between them as her daughter readied the killing blow.

Persephone’s lips were stained red with blood as he clutched her tightly to himself. He tried to shield her back- to stop the bleeding in some way- but red poured relentlessly from her spine, and his power broke against her skin.

She reached up with shaking fingers and traced the path of his tears.

“Azriel...”

For the first time in his life, he heard his mother’s voice.

And she was saying goodbye.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Mor stirred slowly from a deep, grasping sleep.

Scraps of exhaustion clung to her mind and were unwilling to let her go. Something moved in the black It brushed against her on the other side of a thin barrier. A veil she wasn’t supposed to cross.

Wisps of gray fitted around her. They forced themselves beneath her, between the thing in the veil and herself. Every strand of golden hair had to be pried away. Even her skin was stuck fast. Mor wanted to look and see what stood on the other side- but the gray mist made that difficult.

She heard whispers- sweet, beautiful sounds that invited her in.

The mist brushed against that veil, illuminating a female with long, sun-colored hair. She wore a simple white shift and smiled brightly. Regal in every way- and agonizingly familiar.

Andromache leaned forward into the veil as the gray mist freed Mor. She stroked her old lover’s cheek with a glowing hand and gently kissed her forehead.

Light flowed through Mor from where Andromache’s lips touched. It embraced the gray, strengthened it, and Mor had to close her eyes against the sheer force of power, life, and love that blinded her senses.

\---

* * *

 

\---

“She’s coming around,” a voice rasped.

Mor’s entire body ached. Even her eyes burned as she opened them.

“Ssh, child,” a blurry, dark figure crouched over her. It spoke the moment Mor opened her mouth, “You aren’t quite back yet. It takes time. You were further gone than the male… but the cataracts are clearing nicely.”

“I can help speed it up, Achlys,” an old voice said.

Cold drops of something fell into Mor’s open eyes. She whimpered in surprise- but that was the only sound she was capable of making. She blinked rapidly to clear the moisture, and as she did the figure solidified.

Green-gray skin stretched over too much bone.

Hollow, dead eyes circled in blue-black.

Cheeks ripped through with long, bloody scratches that left dangling ribbons of flesh.

A mouth full of long, pointed teeth.

Mor’s eyes widened, even as a black veil was hastily pulled over the horrible face.

“Don’t judge,” the second voice said as Achlys moved out of sight. “You’re not so easy on the eyes right now either.”

Mor didn’t question Madja as the old healer came into view. She didn’t wonder what happened, why she was in pain, or who the monster had been.

“Drink _slowly_. You’ll have trouble swallowing.”

A long pipette split her lips and something sweet dripped down her tongue. Mor tried to swallow, but it was difficult and painful. As the liquid slowly built up she tried again. Madja didn’t let her choke. She gave Mor the potion slowly, letting her wet her tongue and try again until, finally, she managed a swallow.

In the potion’s wake, her throat began to move more easily. Some of the pain ebbed, and she felt a hand grasping hers.

“How long do I have to do this?” a male voice, deep and rich, asked. His tone was flat. Angry even.

“Until I say so, you insufferable prick,” Cassian’s own voice was thin, and came from somewhere near Mor’s feet.

She couldn’t move her head while Madja fed her, but she looked around as much as her eyes allowed. The wraith was visible at the furthest edge of her vision, kneeling over someone else. In Cassian’s direction she could make out the back of a man in sleeveless armor with tight brown curls circling his scalp. As for the male who held her hand- he was black-haired with olive skin that still held remnants of washed-off paint.

Something tugged at Mor’s mind and suddenly she felt hollow. It was the same feeling she got when she fought in battle-

“Be good,” Cassian said. “Madja made me promise not to kill them. Yet.”

Mor’s mind began to sort through flashes of memory. That face- she’d fought against the man. Held him and another at bay until something happened. Something awful.

\---

* * *

 

_“Azriel, look out!” Mor shouted. He was too focused on the woman and Hades to see the door to his mother’s chambers open._

_Mor tried to throw off the olive male, but he was too strong a fighter to ignore, and she was already helping Cassian fight his enemy too. She couldn’t stop as Persephone’s eyes widened._

_As the girl who looked so much like Azriel was thrown back- and began to circle._

_Persephone was tugging at the door, dragging herself to her feet with a pained, desperate expression. Her opponent attacked again and Mor lost sight as she parried his blade and drew their dance further from Azriel._

_Next she could afford a glance, the woman was behind Azriel with her blade drawn. She was readying a blow that could very well sever his wings._

_To any Illyrian, losing their wings meant death._

_The blade began its arc and Persephone threw herself at Azriel, shoving him forward a step. Her own back was ripped open in place of his. Confusion and fear lit Azriel’s face. Persephone coughed, splashing hot blood against his neck._

_He turned and caught her as she fell. The man attacking Mor dared a glance- then dropped his blade. Hades staggered as Azriel held his mother. As she touched his cheek and whispered._

_“Azriel…”_

_His face- complete and utter devastation._

_It was the armored male- the one who fought Cassian- who used the distraction to his advantage. He struck Cassian in the temple, dazing him, then ran across the room to Azriel and Persephone. Hades found his legs again and charged Azriel._

_The woman ripped his mother from his arms as Hades grabbed Azriel’s head and poured endless darkness into him. Persephone screamed- the stench of burning flesh rose from her back where the armored one pressed the flat edge of his sword. His hand glowed white-hot as it warmed the sword. From the scorched mark in her dress he’d tried to use the power on her direction before realizing magic would have no effect._

_Something cold and grasping held Mor fast as the strength faded from her body. Her_ kilij _was too heavy, and when she looked down she saw wrinkled flesh sagging with age._

_Achlys stood over Nuala, holding her tight as one of the veiled creatures- her sister- breathed in the vitality of the room. Gray mist flowed from Mor, Cassian, and Nuala into the exposed maw of the walking corpse._

_Only Azriel, his eyes black and unseeing, was spared._

_Mor tried to fight it as she fell to her knees._

_As she went blind._

_As she died._

\---

* * *

 

She fought against the pipette and Madja’s potions. The man holding her hand moved to her head and grabbed it between his hands, holding her in place.

“Az is gone,” Cassian said after a moment. “It’s been hours.”

“They took Queen Persephone and your friend back to our camp,” the man over Cassian- Bellerophon- said. “We flew Aires’ chariot, he took Pegasus, and Hades- what do you call it again?”

“Winnowing,” Cassian said.

“Yeah, he winnowed the others. We call it veil-walking.”

Madja withdrew the pipette to refill it and Mor asked, “Why did you come back?” Her voice was deeper than she remembered, and it took more effort to get the words out.

“Why did you tell us Persephone was dead?” Bel countered.

“Persephone _is_ dead,” Mor said automatically.

“Azriel- the one your master took- bound their tongues centuries ago,” a soft, shaking voice Mor did not know came from where Achlys knelt. It sounded like a hundred voices speaking at once- or rather the same voice one hundred times in one hundred different tones. “If he were there at your first meeting, Amren would not have lied.”

“Why?” the olive-skinned male hissed, “Why bind their tongues? And why wouldn’t our magic work on her? Even Aires’ chariot couldn’t take off.”

The female voices spoke again, “I do not know the story, and they cannot tell you. All I know is that she suffered greatly over her millennia here, and Azriel sought to protect his mother.”

“His _mother_?” Bel said.

“So that’s why Melinoe’s power barely touched him,” the male holding Mor murmured.

“Feyre-” she was silenced by the pipettes return.

After a moment, Achlys answered, “They have her still. If Rhysand recovers enough to leave the world between, Cerridwen will bring him back.”

“She will be returned to you along with the son, if Persephone verifies your story. If not, we rip your world apart.”

“Kydoimos is a god of chaos,” Bel explained on behalf of his lover.

“And he’s shit at his job,” someone elbowed he male- Kydoimos- away. Cassian’s hazel eyes found Mor’s, “I told him to hold your hand for me, not your face.”

“I told her to be still and she didn’t listen,” Madja snapped. “Just as I told you to stay over there and yet here you are.”

“I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

Cassian’s flesh sagged on his bones. His hair was a dark gray and wrinkles covered his skin. Mor reached up to touch the waddle of his throat and saw her own arm was patched with liver-spots.

“Your neck looks like a vagina,” Mor murmured around the pipette.

“Yours too. And you pissed yourself.”

“Oh she did not,” Madja whacked Cassian’s arm. “And don’t be rude, I’m as old as the pair of you.”

Cassian grinned, “But you aged well. Mor aged like milk.”

She couldn’t muster the strength to lift her arm and hit him, so she settled for flipping him off.

“It’s not permanent,” Achlys said quietly. “I gave you both enough to bring you back before your souls crossed. OVer time, I can return your youth.”

There was a deep, aching sadness behind her words. Mor though for a few moments, until Madja’s pipette was removed, “Nuala?”

“Her situation is more dire,” Madja said. “She lost the half of her that was fae. We are trying to revive it, but Achlys is too weak.”

“Can you live as a wraith?” Cassian asked in their direction.

The voices of a hundred women- Nuala’s wraith voice- replied, “No. Not in the mortal world. When my fae half truly dies, I will be forced to cross the veil.”

“And I will never see my child again,” Achlys whispered.

There was silence in the room before Madja said, “Take what you need from me.”

“That would kill you.”

“No, I don’t think it would.”

“Madja-”

“If you want to save your child’s mortality, take what you need.

Madja left Mor’s side and walked out of her field of view. She held out a gnarled hand to the wraith and waited for it to accept her gift.

Achlys couldn’t let her child die. No matter the cost.

“Only what I need to keep her here.”

“Go on.”

Mor heard a sigh from the healer as the wraith transferred her life force into Nuala. Cassian lifted Mor’s head and scooted forward so she could rest on his lap and see.

Madja sagged to her knees and her flesh grew even more wizened and wrinkled. Her hair thinned, and fell away from her scalp in large clumps.

She looked like a Suriel by the time the wraith released her. Or a mummy risen from the tombs of Day Court.

“Thank you,” Achlys breathed.

“How are you still alive?” Kydoimos went to Madja’s side and helped the crone to rise. He moved her to one of the low couches against the wall.

She patted his hand in thanks and found her voice- now thin and reedy, “I cannot die.”

“What?” Cassian said.

Madja sighed, “Two thousand seven hundred and eighty-four years ago, I was a young apprentice healer in the Court of Nightmares. The High Lord summoned my master and I to consult on a hard birth. The poor female had been in labor for two full days and they feared what might happen. I remember going down into that horrible prison for the first time… in the end, I delivered nearly one hundred of the Night Mother’s children, and when the Illyrians needed a healer to save her after her first child, we were reunited.”

“She cursed you,” Achlys turned to look at the healer.

“Somehow, yes. Many of the healers who worked on her suffered the same fate. We age without death. For me the veil is unyielding. The punishment for my complacency in her torture.”

“One hundred children?” Bel whispered.

And suddenly, Mor understood why Persephone wouldn’t allow Azriel to bring a healer to repair her ruined abdomen and hips.

“How did she curse you through the collar’s binding?”

“The collar was made to hold _me_ ,” Amren stormed in from the hallway with Varian on her heels. He must have gone to Velaris and found her. “My Father is a god. I am a shadow of His might. In extreme circumstances she could probably manage something small like a curse.” Amren’s gray eyes scanned the room. She hesitated at the sight of Cassian and Mor. Of Nuala. “What did you morons do?”

“We didn’t do anything,” Cassian snapped. “We were the victims.”

“Not you. You’re just an idiot. What did the _morons_ ,” she waved to Kydoimos and Bel, “-do?”

“We came back to help- at great personal risk I should add,” Kydoimos said.

“She asked what happened, not why you’re here now.” Varian snarled. He was Summer’s version of Cassian, and spoke with all the authority of a mighty general.

Bel answered, “Preemptive strike.”

“And the blood?” Amren said.

“Persephone’s. She took the blow for Azriel,” Mor said.

Amren grew dangerously still, “From whom?”

“Melinoe,” Kydoimos said.

“Damn, I doubt she’ll let me collect a toll for that.” Amren snapped her fingers. Varian conjured bindings that snapped around both Bel and Kydoimos, “Until this is sorted out, you gentlemen will be our hostages.”

“We came back!” Bel protested.

“Your poor life decisions are not my problem<” Amren looked to Varian again. “Azriel’s holding cells in the Palace of Nightmares.”

Kydoimos struggled against his bindings as Varian prepared to winnow them, “What authority do you have to take hostages?”

“Feyre and Rhysand-?” Amren looked to Cassian. He shook his head and sadness crept into the small fae’s eyes. “Well then, I guess on my authority as acting High Lady of Night.”

\---

* * *

 

\---

For the first time in his life, shadows crushed Azriel.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t feel, and couldn’t think. Something was crushing his heart, but he had no name for it, and no cause. Every inch of his body ached- or was it his soul that hurt?

Never before had Azriel feared the darkness. He was its master and it his friend. But now it held him prisoner.

And he was afraid.

\---

* * *

 

\---

Hades stood over the boy as the physicians worked.

Finding Persephone dead would have been better than this. The first rays of dawn crept across the sky in mockery of his grief. How dare it rise at all? The world should be plunged into darkness for what happened to his wife.

\---

* * *

 

_She was assaulted,” Aesculapius told him as his colleagues rushed to save Persephone’s life. No magic could heal her, but many gods spent their millennia in hiding plying a trade. The healing ones largely became doctors or surgeons, and brought at least some supplies to Prythian._

_Enough to save her._

_Enough to report on what was done._

_“Scarring indicates it was brutal, violent, and likely done over several thousand years. We also think… she gave birth.”_

_“Recently?” Hades’ mind went to the winged boy Persephone saved. The shadows he threw at Melinoe were certainly familiar._

_Aesculapius was silent for a long time, “Recently… and not so recently. Hades, her vaginal exam revealed thick callouses, she’d given birth so many times. That’s part of the reason we couldn’t lay her down properly. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never_ heard _of anything like it. She was tortured, assaulted, and… bred.”_

_“The word amongst Prythian’s people is that the Night Court denizens have the ability to control minds,” Hades said after a long time. “Rewrite thought, personality, history.”_

_The god understood what he was asking, “Based on your description of the attack, I do not think Persephone could have moved under her own steam. Looking at the damage it would be too painful for her to even try to stand.”_

_“So he used her as a living shield.”_

_Hades remembered the boy’s face when Persephone fell. That grief and horror._

_Feigned grief._

_False horror._

_They Just wanted him to accept that Persephone would die at the hands of his own people and avoid the war._

_Except- miraculously- she’d held on to life long enough for his people to get to work._

_And Hades now knew what those monsters had done to his wife._

_Even if he was her son- that only made it worse. He_ let _his race use her._

_“Do as many operations as you need to fix her body.  I will have the angels remove the collar.”_

_“They already tried-”_

_“Not hard enough. I refuse to believe that over one thousand gods cannot overcome a simple strip of metal!” Hades whirled on Aesculapius. “As for the boy- he thought he could use my wife as a shield? Send a surgeon to the cages. I have a job for him.”_

\---

* * *

 

Hades stared out the door flap of the prison-tent, holding the boy’s mind in a vice grip as the surgeon worked.

He’d mutilated and crippled Persephone.

The god of death would return the favor.

He turned back to look as the scalpel flashed-

-and Azriel’s wings were amputated.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Nesta fully intended to remain in her little room until Feyre said otherwise.

Except… time-telling painting or no, it was next to impossible for her to survive without windows.

Six days after Azriel brought her into the Court of Nightmares to make her report, Nesta sat in a small guest suite and stared out the window at the distant mountains. The guards followed Feyre’s orders to the letter- all she’d had to do was open the door and say “I’d like a window.” Within the hour she’d been relocated. 

The new suite was no fancier than the one she left- same propaganda books to mislead courtiers about the true nature of Night, same gray clothing in the wardrobe, and her guards still brought whatever she wanted from the library… but there was also the same cold, hollow knot in her chest.

The same Nesta.

The same mix of self-disgust and indignation.

She thought she’d turned over a new leaf, but as the urgency faded and as she sat alone day after day those poisonous thoughts began to nip at the edges of her mind.

Could she ever hope for forgiveness?

Did she deserve it?

Would the numb ache in her soul ever fade?

… was there a way to give back what she stole from the Cauldron?

That was the day everything went wrong after all. Ever since then Nesta had been insufferable- even to herself. Maybe it wasn’t her fault. Maybe the problem was always that she took what didn’t belong to her. Power-that-wasn’t-power. 

Or was it that she never learned to properly use it?

Nesta tried to think back to the war with Hybern. To the moment when she unleashed herself and annihilated an entire legion of his forces. Did it feel good? Did it warm the cold inside? Rhysand always talked about bleeding his power so that it didn’t build up and drive him insane- but Nesta never learned to use hers.

So what if… what if it wasn’t some self-produced evil that made her so cruel, but the insanity Rhys was so worried about?

Though, if that was the case what explained the other twenty-four years of her life?

Nesta couldn’t read as thoughts flooded her mind, so she just sat on a cushioned window seat and stared out across Night. 

A dull scrape came from the hallway and Nesta jumped. Her guards were rotated silently, even food simply appeared on her table (along with the necessary bottles of medicine). There was no sound beyond the cry of birds and the breeze itself. So this was something new.

_ ‘Maybe Elain has finally come to see me _ ,’ she thought. Six days- had she really done so much damage to their relationship that it took Elain of all people six days to come check on her?

There was a rattle as a hand fumbled with the doorknob, then-

It looked like Mor… but it couldn’t be.

A grandmother perhaps.

The female was as ancient as Madja, older maybe. A gray film covered her eyes and her hair was pure white. She held herself up by twin canes that were strapped to frail arms. She wore a simple tunic- something the elders of Nesta’s childhood village wore as well.

“Can I help you?” 

“I don’t really want to explain,” the old female rasped. She pulled herself towards a chair, grimacing with the effort, “Cauldron boil me…”

“I think you have the wrong room. I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed visitors,” Nesta moved from the window seat to press herself against the far wall of the room. If Feyre or anyone else walked by, she wanted it to be perfectly clear that whatever the old one thought she was doing, Nesta certainly wasn’t part of it.

She glanced out through the still-open hall door- no guards.

The female dropped herself into the chair and closed her eyes for a moment to savor the rest, “Tell me, Nesta- did you feel anything odd around mid-morning yesterday? Any strange sensations?”

Nesta started, “No. Nothing at all. Why? Should I have felt something?”

“Huh… I guess I just assumed you would have…”

A flicker of anger raced through Nesta. The warning sign for her temper. She had six days to read as much of Madja’s books as she could focus on. She started the breathing techniques to stave off her impulse to snap.

The old woman listed for a moment before snapping back to attention, “I’m Mor. It’s temporary. Don’t ask what happened.”

Nesta stared at her for a long time before ignoring Mor’s words, “What  _ happened _ ?” another horrible thought occurred to her, “Elain and Feyre-?”

“Elain was in Velaris, she should be fine.”

Something twisted in her stomach, “Feyre?”

Mor leaned forward in the chair, her opaque eyes locked on Nesta, “I don’t like you. I’ve never trusted you, and the way you treat your little sister is appalling. It’s worse than how my wretched father treats his  _ dogs _ … but I have some questions to ask you and I need you to swear on whatever you hold holy that you will answer honestly.”

Embarrassment and anger turned Nesta’s cheeks red, not that anything Mor said was news. She knew the female hated her, but to be told with such brute honesty still hurt.

“ _ I need you to swear- _ ”

“I swear.”

“Good,” Mor nodded. “Do you intend to run away again?”

Nesta held to her oath, “No, but I’ve been alone.” If she were around others and they put too much pressure on her, she could imagine it all becoming too much very quickly.

“What if I told you Feyre’s life depends on you not fucking up?”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

Nesta’s eyes were wide and her fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white. Her heart was thundering in her ears, “Tell me what happened.”

Mor shook her head, “There is a lot I can’t tell you. They think we- meaning all of Night- did something we didn’t. The Grecians attacked. Feyre is nearly dead and along with Azriel is their prisoner, Rhysand is in our care but apparently he and Feyre linked their life forces, so he is useless to us now. I can put a spy among the Grecian ranks… someone who will watch, report, and take orders. I don’t think Elain-”

“I’ll do it,” Nesta said immediately. She didn’t know how she’d prove to the others she was truly dedicated to changing, and now Mor was giving her a chance. Not only that- Feyre was in danger. 

“If you change your mind and run away again, Feyre could very well die. I need you to consider this. Whatever you decide, there is no going back.”

“I need to do this.” For once in her miserable life, Nesta could play the hero.

“Listen to me: No one else in Night will know you are a spy. Not Cassian- not even Amren. They will think you betrayed us. There is every chance this will go wrong, and if it does they will  _ never _ forgive you. If you do this for us Nesta, you could lose everything.”

She didn’t mean to say it, but the words just tumbled out on their own, “I already lost everything, and I’ll do anything to get him back.”

Old age seemed to have stripped Mor of her usual snark, because her only reaction to Nesta’s slip of the tongue was to nod and say, “So be it.”

“When do I leave?”

Mor looked around the room. She raised a single finger and everything exploded. The books flew about in every direction, the sofa overturned, the glass sitting table shattered and destroyed the rug, and even the glass in the window cracked around a single impact point.

It was destroyed in a second. As if Nesta had thrown a fit.

“You leave now. Someone is waiting to bring you to your contact. They are the only ones you can trust. Don’t interfere with the Grecians, don’t try to free Feyre or Azriel. Just wait for our signal… and Nesta I have to stress this- if you run you condemn more than just Feyre to death.”

“I understand,” she stood on shaking legs, already positive she’d bitten off more than she could chew. “Who is taking me to- to wherever I need to go?”

Someone stepped into the doorway.

The male who stood by as Nesta and Elain were drowned.

Who tried to destroy Feyre in front of the assembled High Lords.

Who all but giftwrapped the mortal lands for Hybern’s forces.

“You aren’t the only one looking for redemption,” Tamlin said. He held out his hand, “Shall we try playing heroes this time?”

\---

* * *

 

\---

Hades stood over his wife’s body and tried not to let the rage, horror, and shame bury him.

She was too pale, and her surgeries were far from over. Isis, Aesculapius, Airmed, and Sekhmet all agreed it was too dangerous to operate further until Persephone had a chance to recover. Without magic to aid them, it took more of their supplies than they expected to even close the wound in her back.

“The blade missed her spinal cord,” Aesculapius had said. “A small miracle, at least.”

A small miracle.

As if there were miracles in the hell that was Prythian.

For years he gathered his army and tracked down as many hidden gods as he could. For millennia he imagined every variation of how his reunion with Persephone might go.

She’d be released from the cell beside his and jump into his arms as she did at the end of every summer when they were reunited.

He would find her walking through the mists of some battlefield or another, hoping that mortal men’s latest display of territorial aggression would draw her God of Death.

Persephone would be ruling the Underworld alone as a mighty and powerful Queen, and he would have to kneel and swear he wasn’t returned to usurp her power. In that fantasy they rekindled their love over time- and she would make him work for it.

Yet another had him arriving in the Underworld- or the lands of Prythian- to find her settled down with another man. Madly in love with a brood of children surrounding her and no desire whatsoever to return to her old life.

He thought he’d imagined the worst-case scenario when one dark night he let himself wonder if she was somehow dead and gone beyond his reach forever.

But this…

‘ _ Killing her would have been kinder _ .’

He was a piece of shit for even thinking it, but Hades’ heart ached as he stared down at the shell that was once his beautiful, shining wife. They’d broken her in ways no god or even human should be broken. 

There was a very real possibility that the boy Azriel had somehow reached into her mind and ripped out everything Persephone was.

‘ _ She can come back from this. We have a chance now to help bring her back, no matter how hard it is. _ ’

Hades was ready to fight for Persephone. He couldn’t be dissuaded from that mission but- but a part of him still looked at the damage to her body, heard Aesculapius’ quiet report and saw the horror on the faces of the other healer-gods and thought…

‘ _ Killing her would have been kinder. _ ’

He reached out with a finger to stroke the back of Persephone’s hand. Once upon a time he could hear her soul as clearly as his own, no matter how far apart they were. Her voice was never far from his heart or mind.

For the first time in over four thousand years he was close enough to touch his Queen, and her soul was silent.

Locked away behind a collar even angels could not break.

“Hades? Can we speak?” Hades would never know how long Aesculapius stood behind him in the tent.

“What now?” If it was more bad news, it could very well destroy him.

The healer sounded nervous as he came to stand on Persephone’s other side, “We might be able to help her… but it crosses some very serious ethical lines.”

Hades looked up- beside Aesculapius was his grand aunt. Mnemosyne, the titaness of memory.

“Whatever you hope to achieve, the collar won’t allow it.”

“According to the angels, the collar works by adapting to whatever power is pushed through it in some kind of coded sequence. Like a lock in need of a key. Or rather an unknown number of keys working in concert. Still, when they tried to overwhelm it the collar was momentarily distracted.”

“Then we can veil-walk her away from it?” Hades asked. His question wasn’t sincere- if that were the case then the Zahariel and his ilk would have dealt with it already.

“There isn’t enough time for anything big. A fraction of a second at best. But something small might be possible,” Aesculapius nodded to Mnemosyne. 

She pulled something out of her pocket- a vial containing a rice-sized piece of blue glass that pulsed with light. “I have poured both power and will into this. If we can place it inside Persephone before the collar notices, we can make her forget.”

“Forget what?”

Mnemosyne didn’t smile as she said, “Everything after Gomorrah. Everything she experienced in this world.”

“Then do it,” Hades said immediately. “How is that an ethical question?”

“Because she has a right to know what happened to her body. This isn’t an easy solution. She will still feel things without understanding them. Fear, anger, hatred- she just won’t know why. Without that knowledge, it could drive her mad without any hope of saving her again.”

“Then why suggest it?” He looked to Aesculapius for an answer. “If this will just kill her some other way, why do it?”

His friend- ever the thoughtful one- considered his answer for a long time, “Because it could undo whatever hold the monsters in Night placed on her mind. If they broke her soul there’s nothing we can do anyways, but if they simply altered her memory or placed behavioral triggers- this will undo that. You should also know- Mnemosyne and I are not in agreement about the long-term effects of this solution. If you are honest with Persephone- if you tell her what was done- then maybe we can deal with the fallout.”

“Hearing a story and living an event are not the same thing,” Mnemosyne said quickly. “She will have the lingering emotions of one but the understanding of another. It is that duality that I’m afraid will-”

“Do it,” Hades said. “What happens if the shard is removed? If the worst seems likely and we decide to take it out?”

“With the collar on? Complete insanity. If we find a way to take it off?” Mnemosyne considered that for a long time. There was little to no chance of such a thing happening in Prythian, and the odds were equally terrible that they’d bring Persephone back to their world as long as she had it on. “If we manage to take it off here, her own power might help mitigate the damage… but even that has its risks.”

He looked down at his wife, wishing they could speak soul-to-soul.

‘ _ Killing her would have been kinder… _ ’

The thought came to him again. It wasn’t much different, was it? Let her continue to live on as a mind-slave to the denizens of Night, or kill the person she is- and risk the person she was. 

‘ _ Tell me what to do… Tell me what you’d want… _ ’

“Do it. Bring my wife back to me.”

The two gods nodded and left the tent to begin preparations.

The Persephone who fell in Vele Luk would die.

And when the wingless boy woke in his cage, he would wake an orphan. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

‘ _Wake up._ ’

The voice that whispered to Feyre in the ancient sleep was the first sound she’d ever heard.

No, the first in years.

No, the first in weeks.

‘ _It’s been two days,_ ’ the voice came again. ‘ _Now, wake up._ ’

This time there was something else behind those words, a will Feyre couldn’t help but obey.

Her eyes snapped open.

Something swirled in her vision. All she could see was gray so dark it was nearly black. There was a texture to the color too, and it moved on its own.

A face came into view, distorted and stretched.

No, she was beneath it somehow.

‘ _Wait_ -’ Feyre realized at last she was laying on a metal table beneath a cloth roof.

Her head swam as it re-oriented itself and her body figured out where it was. She tried to move, but something held her fast. Tried to reach out with her mind- a web circled her senses and quieted even her bond with Rhys. Feyre tried to use her power, but it was somewhere silent and out of reach.

The face above her belonged to a man with rich brown skin and amber eyes. He was cloaked in golden robes that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight like the scales of a snake.

He tilted his head after a moment, assessing.

With a single click of his tongue, a bit of the gray fell aside to reveal a mirror suspended above.

Feyre vaguely remembered aging. Her body had grown heavy and weak as her flesh sagged. Whatever was done had been reversed. Her flesh was tight, sun-kissed, and dotted in nothing more than freckles.

Her skin was an easy thing to assess- she was showing plenty of it. Someone had stripped Feyre of her leathers and underclothes. Only a thick leather strap over her pelvis and another across her breasts provided any modesty. Her wrists and ankles were fixed to the table with metal cuffs.

“A promise,” the man said smoothly, nodding to the leather straps, “that unlike your people, I will cross no lines. Those remain, no matter what.”

“What do you want?” Feyre’s throat was dry, but she made herself heard.

“I want to know exactly what happened to Persephone. Hades knows you haven’t been High Lady for long, but you will tell me everything you can.”

Something tightened around Feyre’s throat.

The oaths she’d sworn to Azriel.

“Persephone is dead,” Feyre felt a sick dread settle in her stomach. She couldn’t stop what was about to happen, no matter how much she wanted to.

“Despite your friend’s best attempts, she survived,” the man said. “She’s here. Safe. But she can’t tell us anything. Not anymore. The angels are taking her memory- and removing the poison you poured into her mind.”

“I didn’t do anything to anyone,” the words passed through Azriel’s oaths. They weren’t specific enough for concern.

“You’ve lied to me twice now, Lady Feyre. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on the first one- maybe you planned to kill Persephone and didn’t think we could find a way to save her. But the second one- at best it’s a half truth. You didn’t do anything to Persephone? Fine. Maybe that’s even true in a sense, but you gave the orders, didn’t you?”

‘ _What happened?_ ’ Feyre mind whirled. How did things go so horribly wrong? They were going to let Hades meet with his wife and gently transition Persephone to their care. Where did it go wrong?

“Where’s Rhysand?” she heard herself ask.

“Oh dear,” the man shook his head. “I think you’ve misunderstood how things work when you’re the one on the table. I will be asking questions. You may ask for clarification, but nothing else.”

“I’m not guilty of any crimes,” Feyre tried again. Fear gripped her as tightly as Azriel’s oaths.

The male sighed, “I think we need to start over.” He pulled something out from within his robes- an open crescent with a strange mass of metal in its center, “This won’t hurt a bit. It’s of my own design.”

He lowered the thing over Feyre’s mouth. A wedge of something black and hard forced her lips apart, then her teeth. It continued most of the way through to the back of her mouth, keeping her tongue pinned in place.

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructed as she gagged.

The sides of the device snapped against the table and pinned Feyre’s head in place. The man pulled a folded bit of metal down to hook the bottom of her chin and tightened a knob to lock it.

Feyre began to shake. She couldn’t speak- couldn’t even open her mouth, and now her head was fully immobilized.

Two more strips of metal were pulled up from the muzzle to cup the sides of her eyes. Blinders, so that all she could see was her own terrified reflection in the mirror above.

‘ _Rhys?_ ’ her own voice in her mind was thin with fear. She knew he couldn’t hear her- their bond was muddled and silent. Still, she couldn’t face the terror alone, ‘ _Rhys, please… I need you._ ’

A tear rolled from the corner of her eye to pool against the blind.

“Ah, yes, don’t indulge in too much of that, or you won’t be able to see.”

The man went away for a moment to remove his robes and fetch something. When he returned, golden chains crossed his torso and connected to an intricate web of precious stones draped across his shoulders and chest as if he were some noble from Day.

He set three things down between Feyre’s ribs and arm- a bowl of small black disks hardly as large as her smallest toenail, brutal silver shears, and a small blade.

“I’m used to working on people who know me, so this in the first time in millennia I’ve had to introduce myself. It’s exciting,” the man confided with a smile. “My name is Apophis, and there are two things you will learn about me. First, I treat all of my subjects equally, be they man or woman. I will take no sexual liberties with your body, as I said, nor will I mutilate anything beneath the straps. Second, I am a fair god. Lies and half-truths will be punished severely, but honesty is rewarded.”

Apophis leaned over so that Feyre could see him. She was whimpering into the gag, fear a metallic taste at the back of her throat. Her body shook uncontrollably and the shuddering breaths she drew sounded like- and may very well have been- sobs.

 _‘Rhys, please. Rhys-_ ’

He held up one of the black disks, “I will be inserting these into your feet and various joints. As you may have guessed from the muzzle, your only job right now is to feel this. I’ve told you lies are punished, I just want to make sure you understand what that means. Don’t worry yourself by trying to give me information just yet. There will be time for that later. If you lie to me then-” Apophis made sure Feyre was watching as the disk began to inflate.

He chuckled as moisture spread across the table, “Don’t worry, Lady Feyre. Every subject I’ve ever had- from minor criminals to kings- has pissed themselves sooner or later. There’s no shame.”

Apophis retrieved his scissors and dragged them along Feyre’s forearm, letting her feel how sharp they were, “The first step is to expose the joints.”

‘ _Rhys, please! Please, where are you? I need you!_ ’

He shifted out of view, leaving Feyre to watch helplessly in the mirror as Apophis pinched the skin on the back of her elbow and pulled it away from her arm.

‘ _Somebody, please! HELP!’_

The scissors brushed against her skin as he positioned them to cut the flesh away.

 _‘Rhys-_ ’

The scissors slammed closed.

\---

* * *

 

\---

Azriel was woken by a scream.

It blasted through his mind, deafening his senses and sending him hurtling forward off the bed.

He slammed into something cold and metallic after only a few steps. His body ached, a bone-deep sense of wrong raced through his body, accompanied by a wave of nausea.

He vomited as his stomach heaved and a cold silence took the place of those screams. It was a blessed relief- and more terrifying than he could process.

The bars gave Azriel something to hold onto as his mind recovered. He remembered holding his mother, Hades grabbing him, and then Azriel was entombed in pure, unending darkness.

He opened his eyes slowly.

Azriel was in a black-gray tent, locked inside a cage with rough steel bars. A cot sat against one wall of the cage, its sheets stained pink-orange where he’d been laying. Outside the cage was short green grass- not the rough leaves of a forest floor.

_The army left the mountains._

Near the tent entrance, Azriel could make out the shadow of- he wasn’t sure what it was. Three wolves? Or one wolf with three heads? Whatever it was, it guarded him.

Another wave of nausea and dizziness made Azriel slump to one side. His wings felt thick and cold. They burned as if his brother’s flames were racing along his back.

Still, in spite of the ache, hope stirred in his chest. The Grecians had him- maybe they had his mother too. Magic couldn’t save her, but Prythian relied on magic. If they had another way to repair what was done she might survive.

A stray breeze lifted the tent flap. What caught Azriel’s eye wasn’t the dog with three heads.

It was the wooden pole sitting between his tent and another black-gray one.

They were only visible for a second, but a shockwave of terror slammed into him.

Two Illyrian wings, each pierced through twice by the pole. Pinned open and left to rot in the sun.

Azriel reached behind him with a shaking hand. He felt wet gauze and bandages. But- but he must not have reached high enough. He tried again, looking over his shoulder at the same time.

Bandages covered an area too small and too flat to hide wings.

Something opened in his soul. Something empty and endless and black.

No scream shattered the silence in the tent. He didn’t rage or try to rip the bars apart.

Azriel slumped to the floor of his cage with wide eyes and an open mouth. The horror that washed over him burned away any thought or emotion. He turned to that gaping maw in his soul and let it consume him.

\---

* * *

 

\---

Hades stood in the corner with his daughter as the Angels surrounded Persephone.

Zahariel placed a hand on either side of her head. Haniel rested his hands over her heart. Remiel would be the one to touch the collar directly. Beside Zahariel, Mnemosyne held her vial, now open.

Healers surrounded Persephone’s legs. More than twenty laid their hands on her. Aesculapius and Zahariel determined there was not enough time to heal her before the collar blocked out all magic once more, but they hoped quantity would win out. Half would focus on her back, the other half the damage to her pelvis.

“When I blink, drop the shard,” Zahariel said one last time. There wouldn’t be time for words.

Mnemosyne nodded and lowered the vial to within an inch of Persephone’s forehead.

“Brothers,” he took a deep breath, and the angels began their work.

Three spears of blinding, holy power shot into the goddess. They broke against a wall of steel and pure, raw power. The three drew on might left untouched since their war with the gods and concentrated their strength into one single beam.

He’d said Zahariel would know when to use His gift. The archangel lifted one hand to grasp a vial that had been hanging from his neck for nearly ten thousand years.

Ashes of a broken promise. Of a garden abandoned and burned in holy rage.

The power was enough.

In the heart of their beam, the collar’s walls shifted to secure their prisoner. The gap appeared as one form of magic gave way to another.

Zahariel blinked.

The shard fell into Persephone’s brow.

Healing light flooded the breach as it closed. Not enough to repair everything, but enough to do _something_.

Their task complete, the angels withdrew their might and stepped back.

Hades rushed forward to take his wife’s hand as color returned to her face. Melinoe stayed in the corner, fear in her eyes.

No sooner did Hades touch her than there was a shift in her countenance. A shudder.

The Queen of the Underworld and Mother of Night opened her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** TSON has been suspended TEMPORARILY as I address some health issues. I am making no promises on when the next chapters will be posted.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters will be posted every Tuesday.


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